Beyond The Sea
by x-Kate.Winter-x
Summary: Even with the final chapter of E-day written, they still didn't have any time. *Epic Games owns Gears of War and all recognizable characters. We're just dabbling in their sandbox* BEWARE SPOILERS!
1. Mad World

People flowed around Gus like water around a rock. He smiled encouragingly at those who made eye contact with him, trying to lift their spirits. This was his role. To be the heart of the team, to ooze positivity when the odds were clearly stacked against them. He was used to it, though. Even as a kid, he'd been a glass half full kind of person. The tendency compounded when he got famous in his Thrashball days and constructed his Cole Train persona. He figured this was just more of the same. The obvious difference was that when he was playing ball, he just had to encourage his team to play well, and here he had to encourage people to not try and off themselves or anyone else - trick them into believing that they weren't currently sitting in a cesspool of a situation. Making people believe the best instead of sinking into their personal despair was old hat for Gus. He was a people person, and part of what came along with being a people person was the ability to manipulate them. They were easy to understand for the most part. Even now, with everyone bouncing between the shock at the sudden, screeching end to the war that had taken up most of their lives, the fear of being stranded on this island, and the giddiness at finally being able to hope that maybe they had a chance at normalcy, he could tell who needed what from him just by what they called him. Cole and The Cole Train were two different entities who provided two different services to people - two different types of game plans, and Gus had never fumbled the ball in his life.

So, he carried on, grinning until his cheeks hurt and turning the Cole Train act up to an eleven. At first, he tried to pay special attention to anyone whose eyes looked a little too dark, but he quickly realized the futility of that. Everyone's eyes were too dark. Even his own - he just happened to be good at hiding it. Right now, people were calm - they were too shell-shocked not to be, but there was also a tension in the air that made Gus' stomach hurt. They were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. In their experience, good news was usually followed by a '_Gotcha_' and a boot or two up the ass. Gus knew that eventually the veneer of peace would start to break and everyone's shit would start to pour out like rushing water through a crack in a dam.

The situation was bleak, but he'd make the best of it. And he'd charm and convince the others into making the best of it, too. He'd be damned if he survived the war just to die because some ex-soldier lost his shit and decided to take everyone else with him. Fuck that noise. They'd all just have to hold out until Baird came up with a way to link them to the outside world. He wondered if his friend truly understood just how much was settled on their shoulders. Maybe not the weight of the world, but certainly the weight of _their_ world. He hoped they were strong enough to carry it.

Right now, people were trying to process everything. Just having actual beds was enough to throw everyone off. Veteran soldier or not, comfortable mattresses and sheets that didn't feel like they were made of razor blades were the trappings of a life that had been destroyed as soon as the Hammer dropped. Prescott may have betrayed the whole nation when he'd abandoned them, but no one could say he didn't understand the concept of creature comforts. Gus thought it was poetic that the people that had been left behind were the ones to reap the benefits in the end. He watched everyone mill around, choosing their rooms and marveling at the opulence of the sprawling hotel. Only a few weeks ago, they'd all been sleeping up against walls or against each others backs. This concept of having privacy and actual space that they didn't have to share with their squad was a brand new type of animal. Gus grinned as someone exclaimed about there being hot water. Maybe there were some blessings to be counted from having their lives ripped away from them: they certainly had an appreciation for the small things. He wondered how long it would take for someone to have a mini freak-out at the fact that they had private showers now. He was particularly excited about that bit. He'd endured seeing more male asses than any man ever should. Surely that fact alone earned him a place in heaven. He loved his fellow Gears, but he was sick to death of surprise package exposure. _Excuse me, but could you get your dong out of my face? Thanks, man. _

"Hey, Cole." Carmine had finished working his portion of the crowd and wandered back to where Cole had planted himself. "You alright? You've been standing here a while."

"I'm always alright. Just taking stock." Gus smirked. "Surveying my domain, if you will." They lapsed into silence for a bit, each watching the people as they walked past them. "How do you think they're doing?"

"As well as can be, I guess, considering that just a few weeks ago most of us expected to get sniped in the head: which, incidentally, created an unhealthy obsession with our helmets."

Gus shot Carmine a faintly concerned look before turning his attention back to the few stragglers remaining in the main hall.

"I wonder what my brothers would've thought of all this." Carmine gestured vaguely, trying to encompass every detail of their situation. He looked at Gus sadly, waiting for a response. Cole turned to him fully, taking in his appearance. It was still odd seeing Carmine without a helmet, his red hair - normally cut in the regulation high and tight style - was growing out and looked a little like he'd stuck his finger in an electrical socket. Gus sighed and patted Carmine on the shoulder sympathetically. There wasn't much he could say to make him feel better. Carmine wasn't unique in his loss - there were a lot of people asking that very same question about whatever loved one they'd lost sometime in the last seventeen or eighteen years.

"Alright, man, let's call it a night. What do you say we find Jace and go see what kind of high quality liquor is hidden around here. You _know_ that shit will be top shelf."

"Hell, yeah, Cole! Damn, I could go for a beer right now. Even Dizzy's rotgut moonshine sounds good." Carmine was nothing if not resilient. He bounced back from his dip in the pity pool in record time. Gus patted his shoulder again, already scanning the crowd for Jace so they could get out of here. He was ready to stop treading in this sea of people.

* * *

><p>Waking up naturally to the warmth of sunshine instead of being shaken awake by a fellow Gear was something Anya was determined to get used to. She stretched briefly and reached over for Marcus, but found his side of the bed empty. Anya opened her eyes blearily, and saw that he hadn't left yet; he was perched on the edge of the mattress, naked, head in his hands. She allowed the ensuing sorrow to wash over her, as it had countless times since Marcus had recounted, in distant tones, that Dom had died in Mercy. It was one of her deepest fears come true, that something would befall Dom and orphan Marcus yet again. She grieved for Dom, but she had never shared a tiny fire with him in the middle of a snowstorm, had never staunched the flow of his blood from a bullet wound. She had not been with him when he found Maria: poor, broken Maria. She could never love him the way Marcus had. She doubted anyone could.<p>

Anya had privately feared that losing Dom would cause Marcus to lose his sanity, to either commit a sacrificial suicide himself or just blow his head off with a gnasher during night patrol. But he was still here, certainly against his own expectations as well as her own. There existed inside Marcus' ragged soul a will to live, and Anya did her best to encourage it. She wondered how long he had been awake, trying to squeeze all thoughts of Dom from his memory. Trying and failing.

She knew he could hardly frame his feelings with words on the best days, and there had been so very few of those. Anya rolled over, rustling the sheets, giving him plenty of warning that she was awake. Marcus didn't like to be taken unawares, she thought, remembering the time he nearly backhanded her when she had come unannounced upon him while he had been showering. She sat up and brushed her own naked body against his softly. She laid her head against his scarred back, took a deep breath, and concentrated on memorizing the heat between their bodies. She still couldn't believe any of this was real. An end to the war. She and Marcus sharing a room. Sharing a life.

Marcus tensed at her touch, hunching his shoulders, and turned slightly to catch her eyes. Anya knew the little differences that characterized the wealth of Marcus' non-verbal reactions. A tense neck and shallow breath meant Marcus was attentive to danger, but a tense neck and deep breath indicated anger. Tense shoulders meant emotional brooding, while loose shoulders meant aggression. And there was the blinking; Marcus' only sure tell that indicated everything from surprise to cold rage. But hunching his shoulders…well…Anya couldn't help the smile that came as Marcus pressed her back into the sheets, angling his hips against hers, his hardness making his intentions clear. He may have been mysterious to the public eye, but behind closed doors, she could read him like a book—a book that had taken her years to decode.

His motions stilled as he regarded her expression. "What?"

She wanted to shake her head in consternation, but instead let the smile slowly fade. "Nothing. I can't be happy to see you?"

"I've been right here."

Anya huffed softly and rolled her eyes. "You were asleep."

"I'm not asleep now," he murmured in her ear, pulling her back to the building action at hand with a shiver.

She turned her head to kiss his cheek, the one with the puckered scar. So many scars. Marcus carried so many hurts. She didn't know if she would ever hear the truth about his time in the Slab. And did she want to know? His aversion to Bernie's mutt was telling of the treatment he had endured. She had been powerless when he was ripped away from her. But here she was, in an unlikely epilogue she couldn't have foreseen, holding the broken pieces, hoping the Marcus she fell in love with all those years ago was still inside, hidden away.

She pressed her body up against him, his hardness and her softness. It was all the encouragement Marcus needed. Half an hour later, Anya reveled in the luxurious quality of the sheets, watching him dress with lazy eyes. She knew she should be getting ready too—Marcus wasn't the only one with a world to rebuild, though he often considered it his task alone. Even now, with the Locust *and* Lambent threat neutralized, Marcus still dressed every day as if he was the last man on Sera, methodically putting on his stoicism, shouldering the burden of the world. He cracked his gnasher, making sure a shell was in the chamber, before racking it and slinging it over his shoulder. He checked the rounds on the boltok pistol, and holstered it on his belt. He caressed the handle of his worn lancer briefly.

His hand was on the doorknob before he heard Anya, her voice soft and pleading. "Marcus."

He turned around, taking in the way the sun highlighted her curves, how the sheets draped the rest of her in velvety shadows. The sunlight suffused her hair, making it shine like spun gold. There were faint lines underneath her eyes, the only indication that she was in her early thirties. His battered heart swelled painfully with everything he felt for her, the depth and breadth of it too much, as usual, for him to fully comprehend. She sat up when he failed to approach, a quizzical look on her face. She was the drink of water in the desert, the wellspring he thirsted for that had never run dry. Marcus shook himself free of his thoughts and went to her. He kissed her forehead, then tilted her chin up to plant another on her lips.

"Be careful. And…love you." Anya said after a pause, catching his eyes for a moment before rolling over and pulling up the sheets. Her heart was beating fast at the admission, though it wasn't the first time she had said it. She had told him she loved him years ago. It was the specter of his very real rejection of her feelings that still caused her throat to close up whenever she found the courage to say it.

Marcus grunted, and moved to the other side of the room. Anya heard the door swish open against the carpet, heard his footsteps pause.

"I'll see you later, my Anya."

Then he was gone, the door closing with a soft click. She smiled to herself and burrowed deeper into the mattress. 'My Anya' was Marcus-speak for 'I love you.' Maybe before he was fifty, he'd actually be able to say those three words aloud.

* * *

><p>Marcus checked on Dizzy first. He'd tasked him with setting up a kitchen and getting their perishables in order. He got off the elevator and traversed the wide lobby to the row of blasted windows on the far left side. On the opposite side of the lobby, the squared-off sitting areas had been converted to a mess hall with a ragtag patchwork of tables and computer desks pilfered from the more damaged hotel rooms. A disarray of chairs surrounded the tables. It looked like one of the modern art installations at the High Ephyran Museum that Marcus' parents were always dragging him to when he was a kid.<p>

He stepped over the column in front of the entrance to the former officer's mess, boots crunching on glass, rubble, and flaky plaster. It made sense, having a security detail stationed here, a not-so-subtle threat to ensure the scientists kept busy. While the floor had been cleared of the questionable remains they had found, no one much felt like eating inside. He headed through the dim interior to the kitchens in the back. Marcus hadn't been sure that Dizzy would accept being stationed in a kitchen, even though he frequently took over mess duties on Vectes and at Anvil Gate. His moonshine may have been able to strip the ugly from a grub's hide, but his cooking was surprisingly palatable. Dizzy had graciously accepted, squeezing a promise from Marcus that his beloved rigs he had brought ashore from the UIR cruiser would not be stripped down for parts.

Marcus found him standing over the counter, tallying the newest cache of supplies they had found. He had a feeling that Azura was peppered with numerous, hidden reserves. Everything else on this goddamn island was a secret. Why put your cans in the pantry when you could store them in a granite bunker 8 feet below the water's surface?

"Marcus," Dizzy said by way of greeting, reaching across to shake his hand without taking his eyes off of the packets and cans.

Marcus took stock of the kitchen, pleased that it was already orderly and clean. Dizzy hadn't felt safe cooking until he had doused every surface with industrial-strength bleach. He had propped the back doors open with crates to let in the sunlight.

"How're things? Looks like you've been lucky with the appliances." He gestured to the two 6-burner stoves in front of him. Other than what Marcus assumed was normal wear and tear, they looked almost new. He imaged the (captive) chefs, like the other inhabitants, were fastidious about cleanliness.

Dizzy snorted when he saw what Marcus was looking at. "Lucky nothin'. I traded Baird for the work."

Marcus looked interested. "What, spare parts?"

"Nah. Plenty of scrap for him in th' other kitchens. He wanted pork."

Marcus rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me."

"Yep. Wanted a side of bacon all to himself in exchange for th' work."

"Huh, that's pretty cheap, for Baird," Marcus said, mildly surprised that Baird hadn't demanded all of the breakfast meat Dizzy had available. Baird thought no one had noticed what he ate at a full mess, but Marcus had never seen him eat fewer than 12 strips of bacon. He was about to share this insight about their surly engineer when he noticed Dizzy stroking his whiskers, his expression mournful.

"If everything's fixed, and we've got enough food to feed people for now, why do you look like someone shot your dog?"

The ex-Stranded shook his head and sighed. "There's no deep-fryer."

Marcus grinned internally. The man's tone was _so _sad. "Scientists lived here, Diz. They probably watched what they ate."

Dizzy looked baffled. "But ev'ry kitchen should have a fryer."

Marcus tried to look stern, but relented after a moment's thought. "I'm sure you could bribe Baird into building you one. But it might be more bacon than it's worth."

"You know when I gave it to 'im, he asked me to fry it up right there? Wanted it all right then. Had to thaw it." Dizzy looked torn between disgust and admiration.

Marcus growled under his breath, and slouched against the counter, crossing his arms. "So what's your prediction? How long can we last on this rock before shit gets tight?"

Dizzy gestured at the supplies. "If we find this much every time, we can live on it for a couple years, maybe, even sharing with the Gorasni. But we need fresh, not freeze-dried. We need to start growin' food again. We both know that old E-Day rations ain't good health for the long-term."

Marcus frowned at the implications. The Gears were healthy enough, for now, but the pinch would come only too soon. Rations kept you alive, but they didn't prevent scurvy or night blindness. He imagined the Gorasni were much the same. They'd need arable land for crops, and while the island was lush, the picture of a tropical oasis, Marcus doubted it could support farming. Were there seeds? And who would farm them? Gears? They may as well plow with lancers and sow bullets, for all the good it would do. He barked out a mirthless laugh at the notion, startling Dizzy from his own thoughts. The irony that warriors had inherited a world that needed Bronze-Age skills was never lost on him.

"So we need to get to the mainland," Marcus said, sick to death of shuttling back and forth between the mainland and some fucking island. The mainland was wrecked; the grubs had shit on it, and humanity had brought the rest of Sera to its knees with the Hammer strikes. The ensuing decay was just textbook aftermath that hadn't needed any help. Azura was a lucky find, to be sure, but it was just a pretty facade covering the same problems.

"The Stranded have been farmin' for years now. So were we 'til recently," Dizzy said.

"Yeah, I'm sure they'll want to share their tools with Gears."

Dizzy waved Marcus' words away. "Now that the grubs and glowies are good and dead, things can change."

Marcus did not share his optimism. The cultural memory of the Stranded ensured that they would _never _forget *who* had ordered the Hammer strikes that had turned them into a nation of orphans. If there was one thing humans did well, it was holding grudges. He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Alright, Diz, carry on. Report any new intel and be—"Marcus stopped himself mid-sentence and looked at the ex-Stranded, blinking. "Don't know why I'm reading you orders. You know the drill."

Dizzy smiled and pressed a bottle of his home-brewed liquor into Marcus' hand. "Old habits die hard. The COG may be gone, but we're all soldiers conditioned to takin' and receivin' orders. There's some peace in it."

Marcus nodded, but stayed silent. He stowed the bottle in a cargo pocket, shook Dizzy's hand, and left through the back doors. He'd have to get rid of it soon, pass it off to Carmine or Jace, before he was tempted to chug it all in a vain attempt to calm the apprehension growing in his stomach. Even with the final chapter of E-Day written, they still didn't have any goddamn time.

* * *

><p>"Holy fucking shit." Baird muttered to himself as he surveyed the destroyed landscape that was going to be their home for the foreseeable future. "Holy. Fucking. Shit."<p>

"Talking to yourself, Baird?" His shoulders fell a bit at the voice. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to confirm Sam's arrival. He'd invited her here because once he'd seen just how much work was going to have to be done to get this place fully functional, he knew he'd need an assistant. His first choice was Cole, but he was busy working the crowd with Carmine and Jace. He'd briefly thought about asking Marcus, but the man had enough to deal with being the unofficial leader of this new world order. Plus, he might be able to tell you the phylum of every plant growing on the island but his knowledge of engineering could fit on the head of pin. Baird could only think of one other person who had more than two brain cells and wouldn't just bang at a machine like a rutting animal, and that was Sam. Every cell in Bairds body - that is, the ones left over from Professor Fenix' _cleansing_ - rioted against asking her. They'd been nothing but antagonistic toward each other since they met, and asking this harpy to help him was like sawing off one of his testicles. But, the job was bigger than his pride and it had to get done. He turned to her fully with apprehensive eyes, his hand gripping the back of his neck.

"Yeah, uh..." The words wouldn't come. His tongue had glued itself to the roof of his mouth in an act of rebellion. He briefly imagined it clinging to his teeth, shaking its head in agony. Baird worked enough saliva to drown himself and tried again. "I'm going to need your help."

Sam let out a disbelieving laugh. "Sorry? I must've fallen asleep on the way here. You need my help?"

Baird pursed his lips, annoyed at having to repeat those shameful words. "Yes." He spat out.

"You need my help." she stated, crossing her arms and sitting in her hip.

Baird unconsciously mimicked her posture. "What the hell, Sam? You want me to write it on the friggin' sky line?"

She laughed again, long and loudly, before pinning him with smug eyes. "Say _please_." she said in a sing-song voice, happily tapping her fingers on her bicep.

That pulled Baird up short and his arms dropped to his sides in disbelief. She didn't really just say that. "Excuse me?"

"Say please. Say please and I'll help you."

Baird stared at her in disgusted shock. Was she fucking kidding? No. No way was he doing this. He'd work himself ragged before he gave her the pleasure bowing to her whims. He wasn't going to give her something to laugh about with... _whoever_ it was she was friends with these days. Fuck this, fuck her, and fuck the hypothetical person she was going to gossip about this encounter with. His pride reared up like a pissed off brumak and overwhelmed him.

"Forget it." He snapped. "This'll never work." He moved around her to stalk back inside.

"Why's that?" Sam called after him.

Baird paused in his deliberate pace to whirl back around to face her. "Because I _hate_ you." He turned on his heel and marched off to his newly claimed workspace.

Sam almost felt bad as she watched him go. She didn't have to bait him the way she did, but he was so easy. And she took a perverse amount of pleasure in getting him all worked up. She didn't dislike Baird, not anymore, and she didn't necessarily want to annoy him at every pass, but old habits die hard. Sam squared her shoulders in preparation for what she had to do - she had her pride, too, after all - and set a brisk gait to catch up with him.

"Baird, wait."

"No."

She watched him lift his chin defiantly and lengthen his stride, the picture of petulance, and scoffed loudly, "Baird. _Wait_. I was just fucking with you. You don't really have to say please." She finally caught up to him and gripped his shoulder, pulling him to a halt.

"Wow. Your generosity, Sam, it stuns me," he deadpanned, shrugging off her hand.

"Would you stop being such a baby? Sorry, okay? I'll help you. God knows I need a distraction."

Baird watched her with inscrutable eyes, trying to gauge her truthfulness. "Fine, but you're on probation. Just so you know."

Sam rolled her eyes. "You're kidding me."

He arched a blonde eyebrow at her, "You want to help or not, Byrne? Look, I know you know how to blow things up and… ride rat bikes, but I don't know if you can differentiate between a wrench and a screw driver. So, yes. _Probation_."

"You're making me regret my decision, Baird."

"Yeah? Well, I'd apologize for my rudeness, but I wouldn't want to seem disingenuous." He rolled his eyes. "Let's face it, Sam. The chances of us going nuts and trying to murder each because of all the forced togetherness are pretty high."

He shrugged at her, his expression surprisingly serious. "C'mon. I've got to show you the work shop."


	2. Flotsam

Anya arrived at the rear of the medical complex after twenty minutes of brisk jogging. She had encountered Brolin supervising the ATV escorts when she crossed over the main 'highway' after leaving the hotel. He offered to give her a lift, but she waved him off. She hadn't spent months on the front line to be worn out by a few kilometers. She normally got a sit-rep from Hayman in the afternoon, but Anya thought she'd get it out of the way now, leave the afternoon free for managing the comm channels. Several crews were still working on clearing out the crates and shipping containers from the warren of granite bunkers that ran underneath the facilities, and Anya did not want to be interrupted while she and her team were monitoring the crews' movements.

She stopped for a moment to get her breathing under control, then walked through the emergency entrance, and ran slap-bang into a gurney barreling past. The Gear on the gurney was olive-skinned and tight-lipped, holding a blood-soaked towel to a deep cut on his forearm. His brown eyes were glazed but calm, and they tracked her as he went past. He looked familiar…Steward? If she heard his voice, she'd recognize him; years of being the voice behind the tac/com did that. Once the surveillance bots started wearing out, she hardly ever had video feed and had to rely on differentiating between voices.

"What are you doing in the emergency entrance?" Doc Hayman snapped at Anya as she rounded the corner. _Speaking of voices…_Anya thought the screech of a harpy sounded more inviting. Doc Hayman was carrying a plastic bucket full of tools and clipboards. Her coat, impeccably white, flapped behind her like demented bat wings. The pockets were stuffed with nylon suture thread. She speared Anya with her pitiless green eyes. "This area is for my triage doctors. Get out and go around."

Anya swallowed her pride and ducked back through the doors. She shook her head to dispel any lingering emotion, and walked the long way around the complex. It was useless being mad. They were damn lucky to have Doc Hayman. She could work miracles with only a handful of tools and some hard alcohol. Now that she had a nearly unspoiled, fully-stocked medical wing all to herself, she had grown even more protective. The woman was unflappable, able to calmly staunch a spurting artery in the midst of a mortar shelling. She was the only real physician left, and she was in her seventies. She got her way. Period.

Doc Hayman met Anya in one of the waiting rooms minutes later.

"Why are you here?" she asked flatly, arms crossed over her chest.

"I just wanted to advance our usual sit-rep, so we'd both be free this afternoon." Anya thought it had been a cruel joke that such a hard woman had such a soft name. What about her as an infant had possessed her mother to name her _Isabel_?

"Oh, right. I've got shuffleboard in the afternoon and a gala to attend this evening. Thanks for being so considerate," Hayman sneered.

"I had a few extra minutes, just thought I'd use them," Anya said stiffly, mentally driving a boot up her own ass for starting this impromptu meeting.

"Nothing to report besides the usual shit—abrasions, contusions—and several on-going cases of PTSD."

"How bad?"

The doctor shrugged, her manner detached, clinical. "It affects every soldier differently. You know that. No suicides yet." She looked Anya over with a critical eye. "You should know the symptoms better than anyone—Fenix is a textbook case."

Anya's mouth worked soundlessly. This was _not_ what she had imagined when she had made that snap decision this morning to reverse her usual schedule. All she had wanted was a quick affirmation that no one had killed themselves (yet), and that Hayman had enough supplies and manpower to handle her usual business. Anya was torn between rage and guilt. Could she really be upset if she _knew_ it was true?

"Don't deny it," Doc Hayman said, taking her silence for reticence. "You saw the reports, for fuck's sake. Hyper-vigilance, insomnia, rage, nightmares—check, check, check, double-check. You sleep with him. You know," she said, flipping her hand through the air dismissively.

Anya felt her hackles bristle at that ever-present insinuation: that she was nothing more than Marcus' satellite, orbiting his affairs and the resulting fallout with single-minded fervor. She didn't know what stung more: that she was no longer 'the daughter of Helena Stroud,' or that she was now 'Marcus Fenix's woman'. She felt a pang deep in her gut at the realization that people had ripped one label off and quickly replaced it with another. She was suddenly yanked from her brooding by the triumphant smile that spread across the doctor's face. In that moment, every feeling of doubt in her stomach turned to cold rage. How dare this angry old woman pass judgment on her?

"Is that all, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, I'm Lieutenant now? I had no idea you knew who I was, what with being Fenix's plaything and all," Anya said, her tone icy.

The smile Hayman gave her was savage and knowing. "Don't throw a temper tantrum just because I said something you didn't want to hear." Her hand flashed out and she gripped Anya's shoulder hard. "Nut up or shut up, Stroud. Sex never heals anything by itself. Everyone is relying on Fenix to pull his shit together. Not my choice for the Savior of Sera, but there you are. He refused anti-depressants every time they were prescribed to him, refused to attend counseling for Dominic Santiago's death. I have none of those helpful things at my disposal anymore. I have fifteen-year old medical supplies covered in blood and shit. You asked me for a factual report. Don't come over here, hands on your pretty hips, expecting me to spout euphemisms."

"Shut your goddamn mouth," Anya said, wrenching her shoulder away, surprised at the fury in her words, surprised she was acting the part of the angry girlfriend—a role she had never inhabited and had disdained in others. She instantly felt foolish tipping her hat. Now that Hayman had needled a reaction out of her, she didn't think she could stand to see the woman again after today.

Hayman looked at her askance, eyes alight with righteous fire. She looked on the verge of speaking, but then her entire demeanor suddenly changed. She sat down carefully in a nearby chair. The doctor suddenly looked her age, the crows feet around her eyes more pronounced. "This is why we scheduled the sit-rep for the afternoon," she said in a faraway voice, staring past Anya and out one of the small windows on the back wall.

Anya shook her head in irritation and tried to grasp the shift in conversation. She fixed her own stare on Hayman's profile. "Well, _that_ was unprofessional. Is that how you react to everyone who breaks your rules, or is it just me?"

"I suppose if one more person wants to believe a lie, who am I to stop her? When you're my age, Lieutenant, lies lose their appeal. They're no more beautiful than a gilded lead statue, and about as useful."

Anya resisted the powerful urge to roll her eyes. First the woman flies off the handle like an infant, dredges up Anya's private business, and now she had the gall to act pedantic and spew quasi-truths? "You really are a fucking piece of work." she told the doctor.

Hayman looked at Anya with something of her old fire, but said nothing.

"First you're puffed up with self-righteous anger, and now you're a paragon of wisdom? What the hell is wrong with you? Go psychoanalyze yourself first, you conceited, senile bitch."

Anya turned on her heel and stalked out of the room, away from the venom of her words, ready to move on with her day and leave this nasty old woman to her thoughts. She was going to be positive, damnit, even if everyone else seemed content to piss in her coffee.

* * *

><p>"No. Seriously, no. Just leave it alone. I don't want you guys rushing around in here crushing everything under your giant feet." Sam hid a smile as Baird berated the other former soldiers that had been recruited for the engineering group. It had been about two weeks since Baird's ungraceful summons onto his illustrious team, and they were still mostly in a discovery phase. They'd found a suitable workplace at the other end of the Rose Station, but it needed to be cleaned, and all the crates and storage units covering the grounds needed to be opened and sorted. Baird, and Sam by proxy, had commandeered one of the main rooms with a series of computers lining the tables: this would act as the nerve center for the spaces above and around it that would be used for various projects.<p>

A distant crash followed by a sheepish 'Sorry!' made Baird sigh and shake his head.

"Is there some reason they can't be more careful?" he asked her, his eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion. "Is it against their religion or something?"

Sam laughed and shrugged. "Maybe you make them nervous, Damon."

His eyes quickly flicked to and away from her at the use of his first name. Sam had found herself calling him that not long after they'd starting working together. It was interesting to see him in his element; he was a totally different person – more 'Damon' and less 'Baird'. His normal frown relaxed and even his voice lost some of its gruffness. He wasn't necessarily friendly, but he was much easier to be around. She'd discovered that underneath all that piss and vinegar was a desert dry sense of humor and a streak of perfectionism that could wrap around the whole planet.

Another crash sounded in the back rooms. Damon swore and scrambled to his feet, marching off to find the culprit and tell them all about _why_ they couldn't destroy everything in the room. In the privacy of her own mind, she could be honest and admit that there was something about him that appealed to her. She'd never say it, but she admired his intelligence and abilities. They were attractive in a way she hadn't expected.

Sam felt a small twinge in her chest at the thought. Her mind went quickly to Dom and how she'd been so _attracted _to him. He'd been a breath of fresh air to her. Everyone around them was so negative, but he was _kind_ and had real compassion for others. She had gravitated to him the more she got to know him and before she knew it, her interest had morphed into a giant crush, the likes she hadn't seen since she was a teenager. She tried everything to get his attention; standing too close, working the same details as him, touching him every chance she got. He hadn't returned her affection, though. At least, not in the way she had wanted him to. It took longer than she would like to admit for her to realize that Dom, for all his kindness and compassion, was a severely broken man. He was never going to be anyone's except Maria's and he carried her death - and his role in it - around like an albatross. He wouldn't allow himself to stop mourning his family. He wouldn't let himself move on - not with Sam, not with anyone. It had hurt, initially, but not as much as she'd expected. They had still been friends, good friends, and that had been enough for Sam. She felt a stab of guilt at not being more broken up about his death. She missed him so much and she was so damn sorry that he was gone. She'd give almost anything to have him here, but those romantic feelings she'd cultivated all those months had gone away. She missed him as a friend, not as a lover. Sam wondered what the proper amount of mourning was for a lost buddy, and how long she was supposed to wait before she was allowed to be alive again.

She could hear Damon in the background telling the guys to stop acting like wild animals and her mood lifted. He was a _fascinating_ specimen. Her eyes rose to his face when he walked back in to their office, exasperation written clearly in his expression.

"You're still unpacking that?" Sam looked down at the crate in front of her. She hadn't realized that she'd stopped working as her mind wandered.

"Yeah. What of it, Captain Dickweed? I'm allowed a break."

"Captain Dickweed?" he repeated. Some of the annoyance on his face faded and was replaced by humor, one side of his mouth lifting in a half smile. "You trying to sweet talk me?"

"You know, Damon, I just might be." She shot him grin before she turned back to her work.

* * *

><p>"Ha!" Sam let out an echoing cheer as she finally unpacked the last box for the day. She was dirty, exhausted and starving, and come hell or high water she was going straight to her room for a hot shower. She made her way back to the main office where Damon had started running a general diagnostic on the computers there, trying to see what worked, what was fucked, and what could be ignored until he was bored enough to deal with it. Sam hip checked his chair as she made her way past him, stealing his attention away from the glowing screen.<p>

"Don't you ever stop working, Damon?" she asked, leaning against the high counter behind her.

Baird glanced at her over his shoulder before turning back to the computer in front of him. "Better to get it done now than having to deal with it tomorrow. I want to have a plan for what we can start working on in the morning, because I don't think I can take two days in a row of listening to those fuckers destroy everything they can get their grubby little hands on. 'Oh, we found the cure for rustlung, but we accidentally set it on fire. Our bad!'" He shook his head. "I need to get them working so they can stop annoying me."

Sam huffed a laugh. "How's it all looking? Are we as screwed as I think we are?" She moved from her perch and leaned over Damon's shoulder, one hand pressed into the table and the other gripping the back of his chair for balance. She knew she was invading his space: she'd done it on purpose.

"Between you, me and lamp post?" he asked, carefully keeping his face forward, trying to ignore her close proximity, "I'd say we're super fucked. Like, right up the ass."

Sam winced, "That bad, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. There's so much that isn't working properly – or at all. You guys did an awful lot of damage when you blew the maelstrom generator. Thanks for that, by the way."

"Hey, fuck you, man. It had to be done." Sam lightly slapped the back of his head. "Asshole."

"You say the nicest things to me, Samantha." He was looking at her from the corner of his eye.

Sam shook her head and straightened up. "I'm heading back now. I need a shower like you wouldn't believe. You coming with me?" She tapped her foot against the leg of his chair. A subtle hint for him to come on.

Baird swatted at her leg. "Stop kicking my chair." He finally turned all the way around to look at her. His blonde hair was stained blue from the monitor behind him. "I'm going to stay a while longer and get some things organized. Like I said, anything to keep the ass-clowns out of my hair tomorrow."

"You know, eventually, you're going to have to learn to be a regular person, Damon. Mingle with us mouth breathers instead of making love to your machines all day." Sam raised her eyebrows, trying to goad him into a response.

He shot her a sideways look, "_Goodnight, Sam_." He spun back to his work, effectively ending the conversation.

Sam leaned forward and pressed her hands against his shoulder blades. "Goodnight, Damon. Try not to get _too_ scared down here by yourself."

"Go _away_, Sam."

Sam laughed as she sauntered away. She tried not to look too closely at her surroundings as she made her way to the station. The bodies of the grubs and lambent had been cleared away, but there were still tell-tale stains on the ground to remind everyone of what had happened here. She released a quiet sigh of relief when she made it around the corner to the train station. The trains themselves weren't up and running yet, and she had no idea when they would be. The wreckage from when they'd first arrived was still there, in fact, but the hastily thrown together security detail was able to shuttle people back and forth in small vehicles they'd found around the maintenance bay. She made small talk with her chauffeur for the night, grateful that she didn't have to make that long fucking trip back to the main hub on foot. Her shoulders slumped as exhaustion hit her full on.

As she made her way out to the main hotel tower where she was housed, she couldn't help being a little awestruck at her environment. No expense had been spared here. This place was palatial and it made her want to vomit. Or shoot something. Or both. She'd probably never be able to unclench her fist from around that nugget of anger at the fact that these people had been sitting in the lap of luxury while they'd been starving and dying. All the friends and brothers in arms that had been lost, and they'd been here all along, safe and sound in their ivory tower. She doubted that all of them had been forced here like Dr. Fenix. She figured that a number of Azura's former denizens were all too happy to hide here, convinced of their own importance – feeling _special_ that they'd been brought here to '_save Sera'_.

Sam scoffed to herself. "Fat lot of good you assholes did." She stopped to look up the repeated marble statue of the hooded woman who reached out to her as if she was asking her for something. Sam didn't know whom the woman represented. Maybe some religious figure, but there wasn't any plaque or explanation that she'd seen. Whoever she was, though, she was important. You couldn't go ten feet with her figure filling your line of vision. Frankly, she creeped Sam out. She knew it was just statue, just a thing, but it felt like it was watching you – there was no escaping her gaze.

"I wonder what you'd say if you could talk." Sam whispered and immediately felt stupid. _I really need to get some rest. I'm talking to a bloody_ _statue_. She cast one last quick glance to the statues face before hurrying off to her room.

* * *

><p>Sam let out a groan as she rinsed the dust and grime from her hair and skin. She ignored the way the basin had turned a dirty brown – she just wanted to enjoy the moment. Hot water. <em>Hot water. <em>She never thought she'd feel it again. She ran her hands one last time through her hair and over her body, enjoying the fact that she actually felt clean. Before Azura, on both Vectes and _Sovereign_, they'd only been allowed the briefest of cold showers, just enough to ensure that no one turned into a germ vector. Considering how cramped they'd all been, Sam considered it a small miracle that a plague hadn't broken out on the ship anyway.

She dried off and wrapped the damp towel around her hair before flopping down nude on the lush double bed. She was still amazed at the amount of space she had to herself – so much that she really didn't know what to do with it. Sam shivered as the cooler air made her slightly moist skin goose-bump. She turned her head to the side and shut her eyes, thinking about her day. She traced shapes into her stomach as she turned over each event. Her mind landed on Damon and her not-so-subtle flirting. She couldn't help but smile. She knew why she was doing it. Partly because she was a natural flirt: she was playful with men, she always had been. Mostly, though, it was because she was trying to get his attention. She'd assumed she'd had him figured out, but it turned out that Damon Baird had more layers than most people thought. She wanted to know him, to find out what made him tick.

She pressed her hands into her belly, feeling the muscles there. Her thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts and she found herself idly wondering what kind of lover he'd be right when her empty stomach started loudly complaining about her neglect. Sam sighed and sat up, a little sad that her fantasizing had been interrupted. She searched around for clean clothing before leaving her room for the mess hall.

* * *

><p>Cole had finally coaxed Baird out of his workshop an hour or so later and they were just making their way into the mess hall when Sam was making her way out.<p>

"Gentlemen." She acknowledged, tipping an imaginary hat at them. She briefly made eye contact with Baird and shot him a smile before walking away. Cole looked to his friend with his eyebrows raised. He hadn't missed the exchange.

"What's that all about, Damon? You holding out on me?" He elbowed his friend in the ribs while they moved toward the line for food.

Baird sighed and shrugged. "I don't know, man. She's been acting weird lately."

"What do you mean 'weird'? Weird how?" Cole sent Baird a confused look as they gathered their dinners, complete with pre-war beer, and sat down at a table somewhat removed from the bulk of the crowd.

"I don't know. Just... being friendly and stuff. She calls me by my first name. It's weird. Like somebody just flipped a switch and we're suddenly buddies, you know? Maybe she's crazy?" Baird furrowed his brows and began to cut his meat into equal sized squares.

"Maybe _you're_ crazy." Cole shot back, eyeing the compulsive way Baird organized his food.

"I thought you loved me, Gus." Baird said without looking up from his careful cutting.

"You know you're my brother from another mother, baby, but that doesn't change the fact that you've got some crazy ass habits." Cole was mesmerized by the deliberate slicing, his eyes following the movement of the knife.

"Accept me, Cole. Accept me for who I am." Baird drew a circle in the air between them with his fork, a perfectly shaped piece of meat adorning the tines like an edible hat.

Cole rolled his eyes. "_Anyway_. Back to you and Sam."

"There is no -"

"Let's look at the facts here. She's being nice to you, she's smiling at you. Calling you _Damon_..." Cole trailed off and rocked his head from side to side, giving his friend a chance to catch his drift.

Baird stared at him blankly, clearly not seeing where this was going. Cole sighed loudly and tilted his head back, sending up a quick prayer of thanks that he wasn't as socially stunted as his friend. It was frustrating, sometimes, how dumb his genius of a best friend could be.

"We're gonna get you some social skills one of these days, Damon-baby." Cole shook his head as Baird's brows shot up in offense. "I'm saying that there's a pretty good possibility that our girl Sam might be harboring a crush."

The offended expression on Baird's face quickly crashed into a confused one. "..._What?_"

The disbelief in his voice actually surprised Cole. Baird acted as if he'd just been told the planet was made of cheese. "That really hasn't occurred to you?"

Baird shook his head quickly, mouth opening and closing as he searched for words. "Why _would_ it? We pretty much hated each other up until maybe a month ago. I think you're seeing something that isn't there, Gus."

Cole shot him a dry look and decided to let the conversation go for now. "Okay, Baird, whatever you say."

Baird watched him for a few moments, spinning his beer bottle in the puddle the condensation had created beneath it – three times left, then three times right. He glanced down at the label on the brown glass.

"Huh. This was my dad's favorite brew. He always had a case of it in the house. My mother _hated _that."

Cole looked up from his meal, but didn't say anything. Baird always picked the oddest times to bring up his family. His bite-sized confessions of his shitty childhood always started out as non-sequiturs, and Cole knew it was best to say nothing until he was finished talking. Otherwise, he'd get self-conscious and clam up again.

"She always bitched at him about it, you know? She said that drinking was for trashy people: which was funny considering she chased her morning coffee with a triple helping of bourbon. God damn she was a piece of work." Baird shook his head in disbelief, his eyes still on the wet label. "I think she just looked for things to complain about because she didn't have any real problems. Except for me, of course." Baird looked up at Cole with a sad half smile that only lasted a moment before it faded, and his normally green eyes took on a grayish cast.

Cole felt his heart clench for his friend. He knew that even though Baird absolutely, one hundred percent meant every word he said about hating his parents, he also loved them and had wanted their approval. He also knew that nothing his friend did would've gotten it from them. From what Cole understood, Damon and his parents were polar opposites – never the twain shall meet. Only, in the end, Damon did try to meet them halfway, but his parents didn't show up to the meeting point. Cole thought that spoke volumes about him. And his parents.

"Well, speaking of drinking, have you seen the collection of hard liquor stocked up in the back rooms?" Cole changed the subject, trying to lighten the mood. Baird's eyes shot up from where they were burning a hole into the table top.

"What?"

"Seriously, man. Somebody was a lush." Cole smiled and nodded knowingly. His eyes suddenly widened as an idea occurred to him. "We should have a _party_!"

"What? Like a 'hooray we're still alive' party?"

"Yeah, man. Everybody's so wound up. We need to... to cut loose. Blow off some steam." Cole did a small dance in his chair, trying to express how fun a We're Not Dead party could be. "We could all be trashy together!"

"I think the last thing we need is a bunch of ex-soldiers _blowing off steam_. They tend to use guns."

"I'm not going to let you rain on my parade, Baird." Cole gave him a censuring look. "C'mon. It would be great! You and Sam draw really well, you two could create banners and make hand crafted invitations." Cole's brows drew higher and higher as his excitement mounted.

"Mmhmm. Yeah, Gus. I really see this happening." Baird said drily. A small smiled played around his mouth as he said it, though.

_Mission accomplished_, Gus thought. He hadn't been serious about the party, even if it would be fucking _cool_, but he knew that Damon had a weakness for the ridiculous, and something as out of step as a drunken party for ex-military was sure to pull him out of his funk. Cole shrugged in mock defeat and got back to the task of eating his delicious, if mysterious, dinner.

Baird tapped his fork on the edge of his plate and looked around the room at the motley crew gathered there. "I wonder if they had special food days for the scientists living here." His eyes floated back to Gus as he waited for an answer.

Cole laughed. "I can see it now. Sorry we kidnapped you Steak Tuesdays."

"You're never leaving Catfish Fridays." Baird sent his friend a genuine smile, exposing the one dimple in his left cheek that he denied having. The two were competing to see who could come up with the most outrageous food day, with Baird finally winning with 'Suck my COG Seafood Medley Sunday', when one of the younger privates came rushing up to their table.

"Holy shit, guys. Have you heard?" he leaned his weight against their table, his eyes flicking from one man to the other.

"Heard what? Something's happened?"

"Carmine found fucking _lambent_." Both men immediately started to rise from their seats, quickly switching to high alert.

"No, no. _Dead ones_. Everybody's wound up, though." The younger man shook his head. "You know Marlowe? He was acting fucking crazy, man. I mean, everybody on the detail was a little freaked, but Marlowe just kept going on and on about how we're all going to die. I thought Carmine was gonna kill him."

Baird and Cole exchanged dark looks. The last thing anybody needed was an armed soldier losing it. Things were bad enough already.

"Where's Marlowe now?" Baird asked, wanting to be sure he wasn't roaming the grounds with a gnasher and a skewed reality.

The private laughed. "Carmine _suggested_ that he shut up and relax. With his fist." He laughed again and shrugged. "Last I heard he was still down at the beach."

"Carmine still down there, too?"

"I think so, yeah. He told Lieutenant Stroud that he'd clean up the mess and report back later on. There was a lot of shit down there, so he's probably still at it." Baird and Cole glanced at each other again, silently agreeing to head to beach ASAP.

"Ok, thanks for heads up, Reeves."

"No problem." Reeves performed a mock salute and went back to join his group for dinner.

"Man, this is not something I feel like dealing with." Baird whined as he and Cole cleared off their table.

"For real." Cole sighed. "Can't wait for this to get around." He shook his head as they headed out the door.

"Fuck, Marlowe is on my team. Am I going to have to put up with his 'I'm the Mayor of Crazy Town' shit tomorrow?"

Cole grimaced at Baird in sympathy. "Yeah, probably, baby. Good luck. Don't get killed."

Baird shot him a hard side-eyed look, "Thanks, Gus."

Cole laughed and slapped his friend hard enough on the back to make him stumble as they made their way to Carmine.

* * *

><p>Clayton was standing next to the pile of carcasses on the shoreline, thinking about the irony of being marooned on a tropical island and not being able to relax, when he spotted Baird and Cole, the quintessential odd couple, jogging down to his position. He saluted briefly, too exhausted and frazzled to even muster a real expression. He'd need a <em>long <em>happy hour after what just went down.

Cole pulled up short to shake Carmine's hand, but Baird waved a short greeting and trotted past them to the other side of the pile.

"We heard you were courtin' the glowies down here," Cole said, eyes flicking over the tangle of limbs.

"Oh, yeah, you guys missed one hell of a party."

"See, Damon? We missed a party. All the more reason to have our own."

"Admit it, Cole, all you want to do is get drunk. Paper hats and party mix that's had everyone's' hands in it are optional."

Cole grinned broadly and winked at Carmine. "Do I really need a better reason?"

Carmine managed a half-smile. "We're having a party?"

"They just washed up with the tide?" Baird interrupted, only his goggles and hair visible as he crouched behind the bodies.

"Near as I can figure. That wasn't the real excitement, though," Clayton said with a sigh, half-looking at his team behind him before stopping and turning back around with a shake of his head.

Cole leaned out past him to eyeball the milling group. "So which one's Marlowe?"

Baird spared a glance in the group's direction. "He's the one who's good with wiring and programming."

Clayton exchanged a look with Cole, then rolled his neck and sighed heavily. "He's the guy being guarded by two other guys."

"Alright, I see him. Looks kinda spooked," Cole said. "And his buddies are giving me the stink-eye."

"You're not the one that started raving about the Lambent being a sign from above." Clayton ground the heels of his hands into his eyes in an effort to quell the piercing irritation lancing through his head.

The Thrashball star seated himself on a crate, and folded his arms over his chest. "Start at the beginning."

* * *

><p>He'd been thinking about how many more times he could supervise shuttling this bland collection of never-ending crates from the bunkers to the command post before he went cross-eyed when he heard the first shouts.<p>

"Lambent!"

"Fuck! Wretches!"

Carmine surfaced from his thoughts in a second, hands automatically unslinging his gnasher and racking a shell in one fluid movement. He felt his awareness heighten along his spine, felt the slight buzz between his eyes as his peripheral vision sharpened. The air suddenly smelled again of the tang of salt and the mustiness of the crates. He began pushing his way through his shocked comrades, shouldering them aside with the barrel of the gnasher, ready to unload his nerves with the twitch of a trigger. Why the fuck was he bringing up the rear _today? _He knew it had been too soon. Too soon to celebrate. The Locust couldn't really be—

"Stand down, stand down," he heard a voice shout from the front of the column, while a different voice screamed "shit!"

"Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck_. We're going to die. Holy shit!"

His team was starting to panic in earnest now. The air was full of ticker-like clicking as Gears hurriedly loaded shells into the chambers of their own gnashers. He rammed his way through the throng gathered around the foremost ATV with a few well-placed boot kicks. Carmine burst into the circle and scanned for Locust, his heartbeat crashing loudly in his ears. He tried to make sense of what he saw; Marlowe, a high-strung private, was babbling and pointing at a wretch, sure enough, but it was _dead_. Two other men were dragging out the chewed-up carcass of another one that had gone soupy around the ATV's suspension.

"Think they just washed up on the beach, Clay," someone said at his elbow, the man's voice tight underneath the forced calm. "Already dead."

"Yeah," Carmine said, nodding, breathing evenly as the adrenaline began to flood out of his limbs, leaving him shaky. He clipped his gnasher into the holster on his back.

"This is it. This is what we get! We destroyed the world and now we're paying for it!" Marlowe abruptly found his voice, _and_ the collar of Carmine's shirt. The man was in his face in a second's time, close enough that Carmine could smell the fish he'd eaten for lunch. He liked to think he was a laid back guy in a bad situation, but a surefire way to piss him off was to get in his personal space.

"Calm the fuck down, private," he growled, pushing the other man away.

"No! The Locust are taunting us. I knew they weren't gone. _I knew it_! They've got us trapped on this rock with no fuel and they're just _playing_ with us. Now we've got these Lambent monsters! It's a fucking sign, man. I knew it! I knew it!" Marlowe said, rocking nervously from one foot to the other. His eyes had gone wide and his knuckles were white from the iron grip he had on his gnasher.

Carmine rolled his eyes in an effort to forestall a snarky comment, but he grew uneasy when he saw how many Gears were actually _listening_ to this lunatic asshole. "Marlowe, stow the bullshit, will you? These corpses aren't getting up to stalk you." But the private continued to rave, his voice climbing higher with each sentence. When he saw Marlowe's buddies beginning to back him up, Clayton finally gave full vent to his temper. Goddamn, was this how most people were going to react to the sight of their former enemies? If a Locust nut sack washed up on the beach, was everyone going to fly to pieces?

He smacked the back of the Private's head, trying to get his attention. "Man, _stop_. You're winding everyone up about some dead grubs."

"Fuck you! Who the fuck do you think you are? These things are here to _kill_ us. All of us!" Marlowe cried accusingly, his eyes wild with full-blown hysteria. "I'm not going to die here. I'm not going to let you get me killed!"

Clayton didn't even register the blow that landed on his collarbone because he was already moving as well. He'd lined his fist up underneath Marlowe's ribcage, and slugged the man as hard as he could. The Private dropped like a full kit of plate armor. His buddies were moving towards Carmine with such an air of casual violence that he found his own rage ratcheted up another notch. He raised his fists and called "Let's go assholes. The Grub Killer's punching tickets." The other Gears appeared to consider the offer, but turned it down in favor of rescuing their drooling, wheezing friend. They pulled Marlowe up between them and moved him to the back of the column.

* * *

><p>Cole looked up from the shoreline to catch Clayton's eye. "And that's it?"<p>

"I called it in to Anya, told her I had the situation under control. She didn't sound very happy about how I 'handled' Marlowe. Just told me to stand by for her next contact. Any time now." His earpiece beeped three times, two short and one long. Clayton pressed it and waited for the go-ahead signal.

"Stroud to Carmine, any changes? You're sure all the lambent are dead?" Anya asked.

Clayton looked down at the wretch corpses, at the darkened, swollen veins where the imulsion had flowed through their bodies. He was about to reply, but Baird beat him to the punch.

"Nah, they're just taking a nap. Goddamn Lambent, sleeping on the job. They're probably just exhausted from their swim, y'know, too tired to explode and kill us."

Carmine aimed an elbow at the engineer, but Baird dodged it neatly, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Clayton flipped him the bird instead, shaking his head. If everyone in their circle of friends was a kid building a sandcastle, then Baird was the kid skipping amongst everyone else's, pointing out that their construction was faulty and the design was shit, all the while bragging that his sandcastle was bigger and better (which it always was).

Clayton didn't make it his business to let on how much he watched other people, but once he'd been transferred to Delta's detail, he'd figured Baird out pretty quick. The man was no puff pastry, none of them were, not even the women, but Baird was certainly a tangle of bluster and posturing wrapped around a wad of…something. The key to defusing Baird was to ignore his jabs. The dude was a bit intense and _way _too anal retentive, but once you got past all of that, Carmine found he liked Baird quite a bit. And right now a squall was brewing that would probably require his (or Cole's) intervention before both parties had blistered ears.

"—How you see it? Because from where I'm sitting, we only have three short-range comm channels up, with no encryption," Anya was saying, her voice pitched higher and slightly mocking. "Three channels, Baird, for the Gorasni _and_ us. And aren't you supposed to be working on getting our long-range comms operational instead of fussing with machines that can't run on dead imulsion?"

"I'd _love_ to see you fix anything that wasn't a sandwich," Baird replied with a sneer. He was standing next to Cole now, his finger jammed into his earpiece so hard that Carmine was afraid he'd shove it down his ear canal.

"Aaand that's a wrap, people," Cole said into his own earpiece, shooting a frown in his friend's direction. Baird opened his mouth, but Cole gave him a look of deepest disapproval that was impossible to miss. Baird scowled instead, hand falling away from his ear as he began to grumble under his breath. Silence reigned for a few moments before Anya spoke again, her voice still tight.

"Roger that, Carmine, I'll dispatch another team to your position for the cargo. You and your men are relieved. Stroud out."


	3. The Best Laid Plans

Baird ran his hands through his shaggy hair in frustration. He stared at the cobbled together research in front of him as if the answer to his question would suddenly stand up off the page and do a jig for him. He let his hands fall from his head and he slumped in his chair, resting his forehead on the stack of papers. He was missing something small, something simple. The fix was always easy. Anya's voice floated into his head, mocking him for wrestling with the issue of how to make their machines and vehicles run on the dead Imulsion. He _could_ make it work. This wouldn't be the first time that there had been a widespread mechanical modification made to usher in a new fuel source. He just had to figure it out. Baird had rigged the small ATVs to run on large batteries that could be re-charged at ports around the main buildings, but they couldn't go very far or very fast: which is why they were only used to shuttle workers between two relatively close points. That fix wasn't designed to be a long term solution, though. They needed reliable transportation to get around the island and to, eventually, get _off_ the island. As of now, there was a lot that had gone unexplored simply because it was so far away. They could, and probably would, send some of the Gears to the far edges of the island on foot, but they had no idea what lingered in the unfamiliar flora – there were other threats on Sera besides the Locust and the Lambent, and they were just as dangerous. If anything happened, they wouldn't be getting away any faster than they could run, which probably _wasn't_ faster than whatever member of the canine or feline family they happened to piss off.

He lifted his head and rested his face on his spread hands. He was glaring at his overly neat handwriting from between his fingers when he heard footsteps coming through the main door of the office. _Not Sam_, he thought. He knew the cadence of her walk and that wasn't it. He spun in his chair to see who had entered his domain without permission. He immediately sighed and rolled his neck in preparation for an awkward conversation when he saw who it was.

"Marlowe. How's it hanging?" The man was still nervous from the excitement with the dead (_very dead_) grubs that washed ashore a few weeks ago. His eyes darted around the room, only resting on Baird for seconds at a time. Being in a shared space with him made Baird anxious for some reason, like the moment when your hair stood on end right before lightning struck.

"Fenix sent me down here. He says I'm ready to work." _Thanks, Marcus_, Baird thought. He'd been glad when Hayman suggested that Marlowe take some time off 'for his mental health'. He'd thought it was a no-brainer; this kid's cheese had clearly slid off his cracker. Not having Marlowe around had allowed Baird to concentrate more fully on other things. Short range comms were up and running, (_suck on_ that _Anya),_ and the attention had switched to getting a tower up to start working on sending long range signals. He would feel better if they were in contact with the other pockets of ex-patriots out there, specifically Anvil Gate. Baird knew that not all of the satellites were gone, and if he could find a way to amplify the signal, they'd be in business.

Baird pulled his mouth to one side as he tried to figure out what job to give to Marlowe. He didn't want him out with the others; Baird would swear on the Octus Cannon that the kid was able to induce mass hysteria in a matter of seconds, and he sure as hell didn't want him in here, but he was out of options. He needed his guys focused on getting the tower operational and _not _thinking that they were going to be eviscerated by a horde of undead locust. At least in here, he could keep a watch on him and avoid any unneeded drama.

"Okay, we'll put you in here for now. You can start repairing the wiring on those loose radios near the far wall. We're going to need them when we start setting up the long range project." The kid _was_ good at wiring. Marlowe twitched a quick nod to Baird and walked quickly over to his designated spot.

Baird watched him with a critical eye. Damn that kid was edgy. It wasn't fear Baird sensed from him, not exactly. It was something else, something more dangerous. He'd sensed it in soldiers who had reached their personal event horizons. It usually ended badly, complete with blood, bullets and regret. Baird made a promise to himself to watch Marlowe closely. He didn't want Sam or any of his guys getting hurt.

He moved back to his research, wondering if the few minutes away from it had given him fresh eyes. He leaned over the paperwork, losing himself in it for the better part of an hour, trying to find whatever it was he was missing.

"Boo!"

Bairds head whipped around fast enough to strain his neck. He came face to face with a smiling Sam.

"How exceedingly childish of you, Sam. Got any more tricks up your sleeve?" he said blandly, crossing his arms and turning to face her. Sam leaned back against the high table and mimicked his pose.

"Well, yeah, but I can't show any of them to you until the third date, Damon." Sam smirked at him, waiting to see if he'd play along and how far she could take him before he shied away from her. Her face fell a little when she noticed that Damon's attention was somewhere over her shoulder. She glanced behind her just in time to see the young guy in the back corner quickly turn his focus back to what looked like a pile of loose wires. Her eyebrows shot up and she turned back to Damon to find him watching her.

"Hey, isn't that..." she trailed off and mouthed _Crazy-Pants_ to Damon.

Damon rolled his eyes and nodded. He pointed to the front door that lead to the outcropping near the beach, indicating for her to follow him. When they made it outside, Damon heaved a sigh and leaned into the railing, watching the waves. Sam stepped in close to him, close enough that his forearm pressed lightly against her stomach. She took it as a victory that he didn't try and create more space between them.

"What's wrong?" she asked, gripping his arm and running her thumb along the inside of his wrist before letting him go.

"I don't like having him here. He's going to be trouble, I think." He glanced back over his shoulder at the darkened doorway then turned his attention back to the water. "And, I can't figure out how to fix these God-forsaken machines to make them run on dead Imulsion."

Sam smiled and moved in half a step closer. "You'll figure it out, Damon. It's only a matter of time before that over-developed brain of yours works out the kinks. Maybe you just need to get away from it for a little while." Sam took in a deep breath, hoping some courage flowed into her body along with the oxygen. "I mean, if you wanted, you and I could bang out early and get first dibs on Dizzy's freshly brewed 'shine." Sam bit her bottom lip and smiled fetchingly up at Damon.

He turned halfway to face her with a surprised expression. "It's the middle of the day."

Sam shook her head. There he went missing the point again. "I know it's the middle of the day," she moved in another half step and rose up on her toes,"but you're the boss aren't you?"

Damon laughed and nodded, "That's true. I _am_ the boss." He looked at her and Sam could see in his eyes that he was considering her offer. He really did want to go. Damon worried his bottom lip and fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt as he mulled it over.

"Aren't people going to think we're alcoholics for drinking so early in the day?"

"Maybe? I don't know. Fuck 'em." Sam shrugged and rested a hand on his arm. "Since when do you care what people think, anyway?"

Damon nodded again and scratched at a blonde eyebrow. "I don't like Dizzy's moonshine, though."

"Then have a _beer_, you pussy." Sam grabbed his hand and pulled him along with her. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>"So, what's your beef with this Marlowe kid anyway?" They were sitting at one of the small tables out on the veranda, sipping on ice cold beers. Sam had wanted the moonshine, but Damon had talked her ear off about going back to work drunk and she'd relented, taking the brown bottle he was holding out to her.<p>

"I don't know." Damon sat the bottle on the table and leaned back in his chair. "I just keep waiting for some crazed monster to rip through his skin and try to devour us all."

Sam's eyebrows shot to her hairline. "Well, that's melodramatic, Damon, even for you."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she only shrugged and took a deep swallow from her bottle in response. "He seems harmless to me."

"I found this kitten once when I was a kid. Just a little fur ball of a thing, right? I thought it was harmless, too. So, I tried to take it home with me and ended up having the skin of my arms sliced to ribbons by that little asshole. Two days later I was in the hospital." Damon told her gravely.

"What the fuck? It had rabies or something? Sam leaned forward in interest.

"No, but it turns out I'm incredibly allergic to cats." Baird shrugged one shoulder and gave her an uncertain smile.

Sam stared at him a moment before laughing. "Damon, what the hell does that have to do with anything? Seriously."

"Nothing, I'm realizing." he said sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck in embarrassment.

Sam was laughing heartily now. "That was the most ridiculous bit of Damon-related trivia I've ever learned. Wow. Seriously, wow."

Damon shook his head and changed the subject. "How'd your visit with Hayman go?"

She grinned at him, letting him know she noticed his poorly performed topic change. Sam gave a mock shiver. "That woman is frightening. Why we didn't put her on the front lines during the war, I'll never know. Just the sneer on her face would send berserkers back to their tunnels." She laughed and propped her head on her fist. "She's a damn good doctor, though. Good thing she survived."

"That's for damn sure. All any of us would know to do is slap a band-aid on the wound and hand out condoms." He sent Sam a crooked smile and picked at the label on his beer bottle.

"Oh, yes. Condoms will cure what ails you. I'll drink to that." Sam held the end of her mostly empty bottle out to Damon who rewarded her with a tiny clink from his own. "Cheers, then."

The both downed what was left of their drinks and smiled at each other for a moment before Damon looked away.

"We'd better head back. Lots to do." Sam's heart sank just a little, knowing that reality was just beyond the double doors.

"This was nice, though, right?" She asked in a low voice.

"Yeah, this was nice." He answered just as quietly.

* * *

><p>Damon and Sam parted ways at the hub. She was with another group that was out gathering supplies for the big Comms project and he was heading back to scour his research again. He looked back at her once before continuing on his way to the office. He was glad to see that nothing had caught on fire or collapsed while he was gone. He sank into his chair and spun in a few circles before turning to pore over what he'd written down. It turned out that his outing with Sam hadn't refreshed his brain, and he still didn't see the solution he was looking for. He knew he was close, though. Nothing escaped him forever. He just needed to try and see it from a new perspective.<p>

He decided to abandon the research again and went out to the main floor with his guys, checking on the various repairs and rebuilds that were being done. The work distracted him for hours and before he knew it, his guys were calling it a night and heading back to the hotel for food and rest. He knew he should head back, too; he hadn't seen Gus all day and wanted to catch up, but his stack of notes called to him and he couldn't resist.

He turned the lights out as he meandered back to his desk, pitching the area into murky darkness. Soon, it was only him, his desk lamp and his work. He rolled his shoulders once before diving into the research, reworking equations and trying to find any sliver of information that would help him.

The low murmur of nearby voices broke his concentration. Baird had thought that he was alone. He'd seen all of the engineers leave hours ago, so who was down in the workshop? Damon killed the light on his desk and moved quietly towards the voices. _They're speaking Gorasni?_ He moved closer to the doorway, crouched down and strained his ears to hear the conversation. Damon had always been a quick study in everything from math to linguistics. He couldn't speak Gorasni like a native, but he could hold his own, and what he was translating right now had him vacillating between anger and confusion. He listened to the whole conversation and waited for the men to leave before he made his way to the hotel.

He waited impatiently for the door to Marcus' room to open after he knocked. He was finally greeted with Anya's unsmiling face when she opened it halfway, blocking the entrance with her body.

"Baird. What are you doing here?" He was taken slightly aback by her brusque greeting. He knew the two of them didn't get along and he was the last person she wanted to see right now, but he hadn't expected _this_ response. Plus, it didn't help that she'd been oddly jealous of Marcus' time lately. _Well, too fucking bad, lady._

"Anya." he said by way of greeting. "Marcus around?"

She huffed a sharp sigh. "It's late."

"It's important." Baird shot back at her.

Anya pursed her lips and frowned at him. "This really can't wait, Baird? You're sure it's not one of those things that's important to you, but not to anyone else?"

Baird quirked an eyebrow at her. She was being _particularly_ nasty tonight.

"I promise not to keep him out long, Anya. It only has to do with the livelihoods of everyone on the island, but I'll see if I can get it out ricky-tick just for you," he said in a mockingly sweet voice.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously at him. "Just wait here," she said and shut the door in his face.

_What crawled up_ her _ass today? _There was no love lost between him and Anya, but she would usually save her venom for when he'd pissed her off, and he hadn't done anything in the recent weeks that he could recall. He didn't know what was going on with her, but her inner bitch was in full effect today.

* * *

><p>"Baird's outside. He says he needs to talk to you about something important." Anya announced as she walked into the study attached to the main room.<p>

"Now?" Marcus asked, not looking up from the files he was thumbing through. He had a meeting with Trescu tomorrow that he wasn't looking forward to. He needed to make sure that he had all the information he could possibly get before they sat down to talk. He didn't want to be surprised by anything the older man threw at him. "Must be a big deal."

Anya didn't answer him. She just crossed her arms and waited for him to give her his attention. Marcus finally looked at her, taking in her negative body language.

"Shall I invite him in? Perhaps get the two of you some tea and sandwiches?"

Marcus' brows drew together in confusion. "What's wrong, Anya?"

She pressed her lips into a thin line before her shoulders slumped and she visibly deflated. "I'm sorry, Marcus. It's just been a rough day and I'm taking it out on you." She sighed and turned around, heading for the bathroom. "You'd better go see to Baird before he tries to pick the lock or something."

Marcus watched her until the door to the bathroom shut. She'd been in rare form tonight, but you could always count on her to bounce back. He levered himself from the high backed chair and walked to the front door. When he opened it, he found Baird impatiently tapping out a drum beat on the adjacent wall.

"About time. I was wondering if you were coming out before I died of old age." Baird shot him a look of displeasure.

"I'm surprised you waited so patiently. You must be growing up," Marcus responded smoothly.

"Fuck you, Fenix." He knelt to pick up the rucksack at his feet. He'd shoved all of his research into the pack before leaving his workshop so he could keep working in his room. He gestured to the common area at the head of the hallway. "Come on. I've got to tell you something."

"It better be important. You almost got me in trouble with Anya."

Baird scoffed and rolled his eyes, not bothering to take the bait. The two men sat across from each other on either side of the low coffee table.

"You know I've been working on figuring out how to get our shit to run on the dead Imulsion right?"

"Yeah. You have a breakthrough?"

"No, not yet, but I'm close. Anyway, that's not the point." Baird shifted to the edge of his seat and lowered his voice. "The point is that I was working late today, right? And I overheard some of my engineers talking about my research. Some of my _Gorasni_ engineers." He said meaningfully.

* * *

><p>The world may have ended once, but Trescu was ever the punctual statesman. He arrived at the entrance to the terraced gardens twenty minutes early, intending to stop and take the views in properly before he rendezvoused with Fenix. He'd had no time for sightseeing a month ago when he'd arrived with the reinforcements. He had been beset by the last, desperate stand of the Seeders, Leviathans, and whatever else had risen from the sea to wage battle against him. Even now, he could scarcely recall the chain of events that led to him staring at Myrrah's corpse, thinking that it had all been too <em>easy<em>. It was like every war he had ever experienced: just a hazy blur of pain, colors, and screams, and the one flashbulb memory he remembered in vivid detail. He took a deep breath of the clean air and shaded his eyes against the strong sunlight.

The gardens were cut into the granite cliffs on the right-hand side, climbing the entire outer wall of the hotel complex. They were terraced in such a way that the creepers and vines cascaded over the elaborately carved ledges down to the next tier, and so forth, creating a visual waterfall of greenery. He feasted on the sight, savoring it, knowing that he would need to remember it when he and his people returned to the pit of ash that was their homeland.

His people had limped along for decades on the knife's edge. They had endured. He enjoyed a dark measure of satisfaction that the COG's elite had seen fit to use their precious fascism as a front for exploiting their citizens. "Starve 'em, recruit 'em, bury 'em" had been a common slur against the COG in the Indie Republics towards the end of the Pendulum Wars. It was deeply ironic that the epithet had held true to the very last hour of the COG. Though Prescott had been a statesman like himself, Trescu could not find a single iota of respect for the man. Yes, he had abandoned his people for a good _reason_. But treason was treason in Trescu's eyes. The means did not justify the ends amongst Gorasni. At least in Gorasnaya, if things went to rat shit, Miran, his father Egar, and the countless Trescues before them had endured the same hardships as their people. It was the glue that bound them all together. The remnants of his nation fit_ too_ easily on the CNV _Timgad_, and it was that shared burden that was responsible for the unwavering unity on the old cruiser. That he even had people left to lead was not lost on him.

Incredibly, seabirds wheeled overhead, crying to each other. No one had told them that the entire world had been destroyed. He envied their simplicity, and watched them turn circles above the gardens, occasionally gliding low over the planters, searching for insects, before spiraling down to the sandbars to hunt for crabs. He walked to the carved balustrade and braced his hands on it before staring down at the steep drop-off to the shore hundreds of meters below. The stone was warm and smooth under his palms. The air was pure and comforting, the cool undercurrent from the shadows below mixing into the warm breeze coming off the ocean. He closed his eyes and released a sigh, overcome with the natural beauty he had given up for lost, one priceless casualty out of thousands. Surely there was a corner of Gorasnaya that remained unspoiled. Like Azura. Like Anvegad. He hoped desperately for the conifer forests of his youth, long Frosts spent tracking wolves and elk herds across the tundra, long Blooms spent inside his father's stuffy office in the capital, before the miracle curse of Imulsion had been discovered on their soil. He teetered on the edge,the hysteria rising to close his throat; as always, he bore it calmly, feeling the heft and weight of it before allowing the emotion to ebb away.

"Commander."

Trescu was snapped from his reverie by Marcus's gruff voice. He turned and found the younger man leaning against one of the archways, arms crossed casually over his chest. Marcus was looking past him to the ocean, his blue eyes unreadable and nearly as dark as his hair. Miran was not fooled by his easy stance or the stripped-down kit he wore: Fenix was an explosive mixture of rage and duty, a time bomb far past its expiration date. _And if his father was any indication…_He stopped the thought in its tracks. It wouldn't do to dwell on Fenix Sr. when he very much needed the cooperation of Fenix Jr. And regardless of his personal opinion of the man, he owed Fenix for making an end to the nightmarish legacy of E-Day.

"Sergeant." He schooled his expression into an impassive one, ignoring the small ache that his memories had left behind; they were from another world, one he would never see again. He needed to focus on the task at hand. He was an instrument of his people: the sacrificial lamb that went in their stead, more often than not. He did not relish the hand he had to play, but then, when had his personal convictions been anything but that?

"Inside?" he asked, indicating the hotel with a turn of his hand.

Marcus closed his eyes as a breeze rustled through the foliage, his face so raw and open in that one moment that Trescu was taken aback. He was unused to Fenix's disclosures—they happened so rarely. He averted his eyes for a few minutes, giving Marcus privacy, before making eye contact again.

"Let's talk in one of the meeting rooms. Away from unseen ears." Marcus walked up the stairs and disappeared behind a monstrous shrub heavy with vivid orange flowers.

Trescu stared after him before moving to follow, trying to understand the wounded animal he'd thrown his lot in with. _I'd sooner breathe underwater. _

* * *

><p>"What is Corporal Baird's progress on restoring the communications?"<p>

_Ah, that was quick,_ Marcus thought. _A bit of idle chitchat about supplies, the state of the Gorasni, and he goes right for the jugular._ "Without any amplifiers operational here, it's going to be difficult. Baird's having to jury-rig the tech on the island." He let Trescu digest the news and began to turn over the implications of Baird's accidental eavesdropping on the Gorasni from the night before.

Trescu was fishing, feigning ignorance, attempting to draw Marcus into revealing some sliver of information about Baird's Imulsion research. _That's what Trescu's really after._ Baird had told him last night that he was close to a break-through. He just need a few more days, the answer was staring him right in the face. Baird had looked more troubled than Marcus had ever seen him, and he knew (because Cole told him) that Baird retired to his room every night, but he rarely slept. Cole called it his 'sickness'. _At least I can blame his attitude on insomnia._

Marcus cocked his head to the side. "Is there anyone left in Gorasnaya to contact?" He was glad that Anya wasn't there to _tsk tsk_ at him for baiting the older man.

"No," Trescue said flatly, his jaw tightening. "But I'd like to have the ability to hail any seagoing Stranded in the area _before_ they blow holes in my hull." Trescu was watching his face closely, analyzing his expressions and body language in much the same way that Marcus sized-up people. It would have made other people uncomfortable, but he merely noted the similarity and filed it away for perusal later. The Gorasni leader was wily; Marcus needed to be wary and take control of the conversation.

He steepled his fingers in front of him before laying his palms flat on the table. "Any intel on this place?" With such a casual tone, he could have been asking after the weather, but Marcus knew that Trescu would read between the lines. Miran was a political animal; hearing what _wasn't_ said and convincing his constituents that the shit they were wading through was really made of roses came with the job.

Trescu raised an eyebrow at the shift in conversation, his expression darkening for only a moment before he followed along. "On this facility in particular? No. But our Pendulum-era intelligence indicated the existence of as many as twenty-two separate R/D facilities, half of those focusing on biochemical experimentation and weaponization. So it's anyone's guess as to what secrets this place is hiding." Trescu held his hands out, palms up, as if to say _See? I can share intel. _

Marcus wasn't fooled; Trescu was expecting a swap. _Why the fuck can no one speak plainly? _He understood why, of course. 'Careless words are oft overheard'—How many times had his father doled out that admonishment while speaking about his work over their frigid 'family' dinners?

"You heard of the New Hope facility?" When Trescu shook his head, Marcus continued, "Prescott deigned to declassify the New Hope research facility, thinking there would be intel on the Hollow, the Locust capital."

"You found something usable?"

Marcus blinked a few times. "Not exactly."

Trescu narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Marcus. "What, then?"

"The entire facility looked like a warehouse on the outside, but the deeper levels housed several labs and rows of stasis chambers. A scientist's personality was uploaded into the security program, some guy named Niles." Marcus paused to let Trescu absorb the information, watching the other man's expressions keenly. "He kept talking about the human test subjects, his 'children', and why he had to take them to Mt. Kadar and abandon the facility. That's where we first encountered Sires."

Silence descended between the two men.

"Who funded it?"

Marcus smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Department of Health."

Trescu swore in Gorasni. "Was there ever a time the COG _wasn't _fucking its citizens? At least Dr. Fenix had the balls to sign his name to the Hammer."

Marcus stiffened at the mention of his father. He knew it was his public weakness, the flashpoint that ignited his temper, regardless of intention. He hadn't thought Trescu would stoop to such tactics. Though he considered him to be a liar and a turncoat, Marcus thought Miran was still oddly principled. Then again, Marcus didn't know anything about the Indie except for what he'd gleaned from Hoffman. He suspected that this meeting would have taken a different tack if Hoffman were here in Marcus' stead. Not for the first time, Marcus wondered idly why he hadn't blown his brains out. It would certainly have made his life simpler. _I must be __a glutton for punishment._

"He was no saint, but he did save your asses. He tried to fix his mistakes," he answered, unwilling to engage Trescu on the matter.

Trescu snorted rudely at the euphemism. "He finally did something right, you mean? Sacrificing himself to save others, since all he's done for your COG is sacrifice other people. _My_ people."

"Allow me to wheel the horse carcass in, and I'll provide you with a whip." Marcus pantomimed pushing a cart. "Forgive me if I'm no longer moved by accusations of genocide. It can only be shocking the first few times."

The look Trescu gave him was thunderous, equal parts anger and outrage. He banged his fist down on the tabletop. "Dr. Fenix doomed the human race with the turn of a key. Just because you don't like the taste of the medicine doesn't mean you don't have to take it. You act as if he did something heroic." Trescu snorted mirthlessly. "He didn't. All he did was clean up his own mess a decade later."

Marcus blinked several times, hackles rising, knuckles whitening as he clenched his hands into fists. He wanted nothing more than to squeeze Trescu's neck until his vertebrae shattered. He suddenly remembered Baird's serious request from last night, as earnest as the engineer was capable of being. Baird did not ask for favors from anyone. Ever. And especially not favors from Marcus. He stared at the table and compartmentalized his anger.

"But you still intend to leave," he said suddenly. It wasn't a question. _That's right, Commander. I'm steering this meeting. _

Trescu flashed a patronizing smile and relaxed in his chair. "This won't work, Sergeant."

Marcus said nothing, but lowered his chin to fully look Trescu in the eyes. Making direct eye contact was the easiest way to unnerve a person, a trick Marcus had found particularly effective on his subordinates. It had certainly unsettled his mother when he was a kid.

"You can't strong-arm me the way you do your underlings," Trescu said, a hard edge to his tone.

"You can't answer a simple question?"

The room grew quiet as each man tested the other, looking for the muscle twitch or eye flicker that would reveal weakness.

"Why does Delta follow you? Why are _you_ the leader of the COG detritus? Weren't you dishonorably discharged?" Trescu asked in genuine bewilderment.

_This meeting is one non-sequitur after another_, Marcus thought, letting the slur roll off his back. He seriously considered Trescu's question. "I don't know," he said simply, honestly. He had asked himself the same question over the past few years.

Trescu shook his head, staring at Marcus in open confusion. "You don't know," he repeated. "How is it that you and I are so similar in bearing and breeding, and yet we are a study in contrasts?"

Marcus gave him a disdainful look, a small sneer curling his lip. "If your father had abandoned you, you might understand."

Trescu's expression went slack. He looked miles away from the ornate table under their elbows. "A man can abandon his son and still be present." His voice was distant, and carried an almost wistful note.

Marcus leaned back in his chair and impaled Trescu with his gaze. "No shit." Trescu had no idea he'd hit the nail on the head, and he wouldn't give the Indie the satisfaction of knowing it.

They stiffly exchanged a few more bits of information before agreeing to adjourn for the week. Marcus and Trescu were both heavily preoccupied, each in his own internal maelstrom. Marcus was anxious to leave; Trescu's words had done nothing to improve his worry over Baird's Imulsion research, and what Trescu might stoop to in order to take it for himself. The meeting had left him cold. He stepped into the sunshine of the gardens, but it didn't reach him. Just when he started to believe that humanity had a chance at reconciliation, something came along and dashed his hopes. He was tired of hoping.

* * *

><p>Baird knocked on the door to Dr. Hayman's office, tapping out a beat on his thigh as he waited for her to open it. Everyone on the island had to meet with the doctor for an evaluation. There was a physical check-up along with the psychological exam, but there wasn't any confusion as to which one was getting the most attention. Hayman wasn't a psychologist, but she was the closest thing they had. Baird wasn't looking forward to his turn on the couch; he'd met with too many shrinks and counselors growing up. Plus, he was man enough to admit that she intimidated the hell out of him. He'd secretly decided that if Isabel Hayman had been his CO when he'd enlisted, he never, <em>ever <em>would've pulled any of the stunts he did in his first few years as a Gear. The doctor had a way of making you believe that she'd surgically remove your asshole if you crossed her one too many times.

The white door flung open, startling Baird from his reverie. Hayman eyed him critically.

"Well, at least you're on time. Not like some of those other Gears." She gestured for him to enter and shut the door behind them. Baird took a seat and looked around the meticulously organized room, wincing when the harsh lights made the headache he'd been nursing all morning flare.

"You're experiencing pain?" He hadn't noticed her watching him from behind her desk.

"No. Well, yes. I mean, I just have a headache from work." Baird squinted his eyes to try and minimize the amount of light entering them.

"I see." Hayman pulled an empty manila folder from the file cabinet in the corner and wrote his name and rank on it. "We'll start with the psych evaluation. I've found that I get more honest answers from you men when you're not reeling from me asking you to turn your head and cough."

The next forty-five minutes were spent carefully answering the doctors probing questions about his feelings, his sleeping habits, and whether or not he was wrestling with a powerful urge to stab anyone to death. She only quirked a graying eyebrow at him when he answered the last question with 'not any more than usual'. The physical exam was quick and painless, even if he did have to mentally detach himself when Hayman's aged hands cupped his scrotum to see if all his bits and pieces were attached correctly.

Hayman breezed back into the room after Baird signaled her that he was dressed, carrying his folder and a small orange bottle.

"The good news is that you're healthy," She said quickly, thumbing through the pages she'd put in his folder. "The odd news is that you seem to be better adjusted to our new situation than many of the others."

Baird shook his head incredulously. "Why is that odd?"

"You're the high strung type, Corporal." She finally looked up from his file. "Usually, people as tightly wound as you are the reason we have to keep the guns locked up."

Baird felt mildly offended by her words. She hadn't delivered them with her usual vitriol, a benefit he reaped from the doctor's soft spot for Cole, but the idea that she'd expected him to be nutty still ruffled his feathers.

Hayman snapped his file shut with an air of finality. "You're free to go. We'll see each other again in six months."

Baird stood up from his seat. "Good talking with you Doc," he said as he made for the door.

"And Corporal?" she called.

Baird turned just in time to see the small bottle flying at his face. He snatched it out of the air with his left hand before it hit him. He looked from the bottle to the doctor questioningly.

"For the headaches," she told him. "There are only ten tablets in there so use them wisely."

He nodded his thanks to her before slipping out of the over-bright office and into the hallway.

* * *

><p>Baird slogged his way to his room hours later and melted into his bed, burying his head in the soft pillows. He'd stopped back here after his visit with Hayman to pick up some items before heading to the workshop, and had left the painkillers she'd given him sitting on his desk. Now, what had been an annoying headache had mutated into a migraine. He groaned when he thought about the stack of papers that mocked him from across the room. He needed to find a solution for the Imulsion problem before he began to doubt his own intelligence.<p>

He groaned again and pulled himself off the bed, heading into his bathroom to fill one of the paper cups with water. He grabbed the bottle of pills and poured one of the small yellow tablets into his hand. It was a testament to his trust in Hayman that he only glanced at the label. He figured she wasn't trying to poison him, so he swallowed the pill quickly and sat down at his desk.

He turned the desk lamp on, but quickly turned it off when his brain started to feel like it was staging an escape.

"Okay," he said to himself, "This isn't going to work."

He weaved his way back to his bed and promised himself that he'd only sleep for a little while, just long enough for the pill to take effect. Baird unlaced his boots and placed them toes first under the bed. He sighed in relief when he finally relaxed onto the cool sheets.

* * *

><p>Baird's eyes shot open an hour later, the headache wasn't gone but it was down to a level of pain that he could easily ignore. An idea had come to him while he dreamed and he needed to get up and write it down before it faded from his mind. He moved quickly to his desk and began to furiously scribble down the equations and ideas that had come to him while he slept.<p>

He looked down at the new additions and scowled. Why hadn't he come up with this before? Baird sighed and slapped his forehead with the paper he had in his hand. Still, a second opinion would help him feel more secure about what he wanted to do. Sam was the only person who came to mind to ask. Cole and Marcus were smart, but their eyes tended to glaze over when he started talking about the technical side of things.

He tried to remember where she'd told him she was going after work had ended for the day, he figured he could catch her and talk her into to looking at his numbers tonight so he could take it to Marcus tomorrow. Baird knew that she might not appreciate him assaulting her with work matters after hours, but she'd been pretty friendly lately and might give in without too much of a fight.

Baird pulled his boots back on and did what he could to straighten his hair with just his fingers. He didn't need to look nice. He was just going down to the bar to drag a woman back up to his room. No big deal.

He rolled his eyes at himself as he made his way to the elevator bank. He counted that he had about ten minutes to work out how he was going to sweet talk Sam into crunching numbers with him tonight. He hoped that she was already relaxed and feeling generous.

* * *

><p>Sam knew the four men were going to be trouble the minute she walked through the bar's side entrance. It wasn't a real bar, though the booze was real enough. The scientists who had been unfortunate enough to call Azura 'home' had stockpiled plenty of liquor and beer in their respective quarters. Thanks to Dizzy's quick organization, a free-standing storeroom had been converted to a bar within the first few days of landing on the island, complete with dim lighting and the odor of unwashed men.<p>

The knot of men near the door, all Gorasni, stared well below the neckline of her shirt as she went past. Sam ignored the feeling of being eye-fucked in favor of sidling up to the counter and hailing the volunteer bartender for the evening—a Gear named Foster. "I need a stiff one. Long day."

Foster grinned and slapped a chipped drinking glass on the metal counter. He poured her a generous pull of vodka (made in Gorasnaya), and poured a smaller shot for himself. Sam held up her glass. "To surviving," she said after a moment's thought. They toasted each other with a resounding clink and drained their glasses. Sam coughed and pushed her glass back towards Foster, savoring the pleasurable burn traveling down her throat. "That's one thing the Indies got right, eh? One more."

"Wasn't much to do in Gorasnaya during Storm and Frost, I guess, 'cept brew liquor." Foster tossed back his second shot. "Dizzy's kind of people."

She was about to say that she didn't think the filthy Indies were Dizzy's type, but pulled up short when she thought of how easily the COG had abandoned its citizens; his family and countless others doomed to immolation or scrabbling through the wastes in the wake of the Hammer. At least the Indie governments hadn't shoveled their people so _willingly_ into the furnace of armageddon.

"Yeah, Diz gets on pretty well with some of 'em." She finished up another round and bid Foster goodnight. She needed to leave before she drank too much.

"Byrne, leaving so soon?" The thick voice came from one of the Gorasni, the one nearest the door.

Sam peered at the name on his worn fatigues. "Tamarkin, is it? You _might_ be a nice guy when you aren't sloshed, but I'm not interested." She looked at each man in turn. "Not interested in any of you, actually. But thanks anyway." She brushed past them without a backwards glance, but a rough hand descended between her shoulder blades. Sam bristled at the untoward contact.

"Hear me out, duchaska."

"Hey, hands off asshole," she snarled, whirling around to confront him. The door was thrown open, and the cold yellow lights from outside slanted into the darkened space.

"Sam!" Baird stood framed in the doorway. He was in civvie clothes instead of his stripped-down kit, and his goggles were hanging around his neck. He'd either just come from his hotel room, or he'd left the workshop earlier and had been unable to stay away.

"Sam, I need your eyes. Let's go."

Tamarkin stood up and gestured in Sam's direction. "I 'vas not done with her, engineer."

Baird turned to the Indie with a scowl. "_I _say you're done. I need her." He grabbed her wrist and dragged her outside. Her stomach did a backflip; she was relieved that someone had rescued her from a potentially annoying situation. And his hands were so very warm.

The door creaked outward and Tamarkin strode outside after them. "We were not _done_."

Baird turned to the man, still clutching Sam's wrist. "Seriously? Look, asshole, she's not buying what you're selling. Get lost."

It was the tightness in Damon's voice, the pinched expression, that told Sam he was even less patient than usual tonight. The shadows under his eyes gave his skin a grayish cast, his normally green eyes dull and bloodshot. He looked the wrong side of tired.

"This is not your business," Tamarkin said clearly, working through his slur _and_ his accent. "This is between me and Byrne."

Baird smiled condescendingly. "She's working with me on important scientific shit that a moron like you couldn't understand, even if you had a whole team of rocket scientists at your command. So, yeah, it _is _my business. Now go fuck off." He shifted his stance, settling his weight back into his heels. He wasn't anticipating a physical reaction.

Sam wasn't so sure. In most public bars, Tamarkin would have been cut off and tossed out on his ass after hassling a woman, but those measures were a thing of the past. It was more important than ever to watch out for your buddies, or better yet, watch out for your _aggressor's _buddies. She did not intend to stick around long enough for his leering friends inside to join the argument.

"Go fuck yourself, engineer," Tamarkin snarled, pointing at Baird. "Byrne 'vas hot to trot until _you _showed up. Go find your own woman."

Sam stiffened, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I'd rather suck off a Locust than even hold hands with this swine," Sam told Damon, beyond pissed off that he was mixed up in this situation. Still, no other Gear she knew would have charged into an obviously escalating conflict to forcibly drag her away at a late hour _just_ to eyeball something scientific. _Talk about a bacon save._

"C'mon Byrne. The world is shit, and you have no man in your bed. Such a woman cannot afford to be choosy."

That this asshole had thought she needed a pity fuck only filled Sam with rage. Who she shagged was _her_ goddamn business. Beer bottles littered the immediate area around the bar's entrance. Sam snatched one up off the ground and holding the neck, broke the bottom off against the nearest wall. If Tamarkin wanted to get saucy, she'd damn well stoop to his level and cut his lecherous paws into confetti. It wouldn't be the first time she'd classed up a fight with an improvised glass weapon.

"Ah, Sam, this dick isn't worth your elbow grease." Baird took the bottle from her, and she surprised herself by letting him; No one had ever dispelled her anger so easily. She suddenly felt leagues out of her depth; the current Damon was not jiving with the one she had been working with for weeks. She watched him toss the bottle at Tamarkin's feet. The other man jerked, thinking the bottle was meant to hit him. Baird's mocking bark of laughter echoed off of the surrounding buildings.

Baird laughed again under his breath and sat in his hip, crossing his arms, indicating that he was not intimidated by the Gorasni in the slightest. "You can't take 'no' for an answer, huh? I can fix that problem for you."

The threat hung in the humid air, growing between them the longer it went unanswered. Tamarkin glowered and bared his teeth, but said nothing. Finally Baird spoke. "Run back inside to your girlfriends, Tamarkin."

He turned around and focused his attention on Sam. "C'mon, I need a fresh set of eyes on—" Tamarkin was moving fast behind Baird, a truly murderous look on his face. Sam tried to warn him, but could only manage a strangled squeak.

Baird's expression hardened when he saw Sam's eyes. He shifted to his right leg, hesitated for a moment, eyes half-closed as he tuned into the sounds of Tamarkin's movements. Just as the other man swung a wild right hook, Baird ducked, pivoting on his right foot and following his momentum around, bringing his own left hook crashing into Tamarkin's temple as the man stumbled from his miss. He danced nimbly backwards when Tamarkin's arm shot out, grabbing at his ankles, trying to trip him. He took a few steps back and adopted a relaxed stance, arms loose at his sides, knees bent slightly as he swayed back and forth like a snake, his face one of keen focus.

Sam was speechless. Where had Damon picked up the Pesang arts? For a man that was twice the weight of a Pesanga, he was just as graceful. _Bloody hell._

Tamarkin scrambled to his feet and charged Baird with a roar. Against Sam's prediction, Baird stepped into Tamarkin's fists with his elbows tucked close to his head, blocking him, and bulldozing forward into the man's chest. He seized Tamarkin's right arm and shoved it down, out of the way, even as he fluidly twisted over his own shoulder and reached up to grab the Gorasni in a headlock. Baird snapped his head back, headbutting Tamarkin's face and instantly breaking his nose. Tamarkin stumbled back cupping his nose, screaming in Gorasni. Baird fell into his ready stance, swaying once more.

Sam didn't know what unsettled her more: that Damon could gracefully beat the piss out of a larger man with hardly any effort, or that he had absolutely no expression while he did it. The door to the bar opened and the rest of Tamarkin's crew stumbled into the fray. They all stared at Tamarkin with the dumb incomprehension of the drunk, and comically turned as one towards Baird.

"You've got to be kidding me," she said incredulously. This was all playing out like a bad movie. The odds had been in Damon's favor before, but now…_Why didn't I just grab a beer from the kitchens? Goddamnit._

"It's fine, Sam. Just stay against that wall." Damon's voice was calm. Too calm.

"Damon, you—" She jumped back with a shriek as a bottle exploded against the wall next to her head. She touched the sharp sting on her cheek, blood welling around her fingertips. Tamarkin's wingman, the one with the scar on his nose, stooped to pick up another beer bottle.

The adrenaline pounded in her temples, and she embraced the fury rising in her stomach. "I'm gonna give you another scar, you Indie piece of scum. I'll gouge your fucking eyes out." She picked up the neck of the broken bottle and clenched it between her index and middle fingers, and made her hand into a fist.

Baird spared her a glance and frowned. "_Samantha_, I've got this. Don't be an idiot."

His use of her full name cut through the angry fog around her brain. She took a deep breath, but kept a tight grip on the bottle. If she got the chance, she'd make another one; Baird clearly had a talent for hand-to-hand combat, but even _he_ couldn't stave off three Gorasni in various states of intoxication single-handedly.

"I'm only saying this once: walk away. I have pressing business that _seriously_ requires my attention."

_Who the fuck was this Damon that politely asked his assailants to leave?_

Tamarkin spoke to his friends and gestured at Baird.

"Guess they didn't want the consolation prize," Baird commented. He sprang forward to meet them, fists high and tight by his ears. The men drew around him, but a series of tightly controlled elbow and knee strikes sent them reeling away. Two of the Gorasni sandwiched him and rushed in, swinging. He ducked underneath their arms and shot up, arms stiff, punching both men in the throat. They crumpled to the ground clutching their necks. Baird stepped away and met Tamarkin's assault, letting a punch sail past his cheek before chopping the point of his elbow down into the crook of Tamarkin's arm. There was a sickening pop, and the Indie dropped with a grunt to his knees.

Scar Nose had recovered and picked up a rusted bucket and stalked closer to Baird unawares, letting his friends bear the brunt of the engineer's onslaught. He swung his arm back, winding up for a punishing surprise blow, but Sam's bottle fist caught him full in the shoulder, biting through cloth and skin. She jammed it deeper, twisting, and gritted her teeth as the glass punctured her own palm. He mule-kicked, catching her knee and sending her crashing to the ground. Sam instinctively rolled over, the bucket thudding into the place her head had been a moment before. Her knee screamed with pain. She rolled again to be safe, and looked for Scar Nose. He was digging the glass out of his shoulder clumsily, blood streaming thickly down his arm. His smoldering eyes were pinned directly on her.

Sam's heart jumped into her throat. _I need help. I need help._ She stumbled away from the brawl, shaking the bloodied glass from her hands. The stabbing pain in her knee flared when she started to run. Tears sprang in her eyes, clouding the dark spots dancing in her vision. She crushed the dry retch rising in her esophagus. She could hear Scar Nose tripping over his own feet behind her, cursing in a mixture of Gorasni and Tyran. If she looked back, he'd catch her; she lengthened her stride and ran hard, heart pounding like a frightened rabbit's as she bobbed and weaved between the buildings and crates. _If I can just find some Gears… _She racked her brain for the details on the schedule she had only glanced at on her way through the hub. _A night patrol should be down on the northern side of the beach, right? Marcus is usually the assigned squad leader._

Sam switched directions and ran down several flights of stairs, angling for the beachfront defenses. Her thighs were burning from the unexpected effort. She no longer heard Scar Nose—hopefully she'd lost him in the warren of buildings. She staggered as the stone and grass abruptly gave way to sand. Her knee twisted underneath her, and she gasped at the enormity of the pain.

"Marcus!" She shouted, hoping he was near, her voice weak and tremulous. It was quiet save for the crashing of the waves. "Marcus!" She spied several figures walking away from her, meters down the coast. None of them looked large enough to be Marcus. She moaned impatiently and whipped her head around to look the other way. A lone Gear much closer to her than the others was standing up to his knees in the surf, just staring into the darkened sea. He was almost out of the circles of light from the broken docks. That _had_ to be him. She swore and started running again.

"Marcus! Marcus!" Sam yelled, flying down the wooden steps and onto the beach. He turned and saw her pelting towards him unevenly on the sand, bleeding from cuts on her face and hands. Marcus drew the boltok from his belt and craned around to look behind her, checking for pursuers. His expression suggested that she should tell him _immediately_ what the fuck was going on.

She skidded to a stop but crashed into him anyway, almost bowling him over. He staggered back a step and grabbed her shoulders, steadying her. His gaze burned across her face as he analyzed her injuries. "Sam, what the _hell_?"

"These blokes were hassling me at the bar. Damon came to get me, said he needed a fresh set of eyes for something, his research I guess, but the Indie assholes couldn't take 'no' for an answer. He's beating the piss out of them! He's outnumbered." Sam realized she was panting, and tried to take deep breaths. She was starting to get shaky again.

Marcus' expression hardened into his battle face, all hollow eyes and a granite set to his jaw. "Show me."

Sam nodded, and forced her tired legs into a run. Marcus jogged beside her, silent and cat-like.

* * *

><p>Baird hadn't been so hard-pressed since high school. He was holding his own, deflecting his inebriated attackers at regular intervals, but his strength was fading. Being an insomniac had so many benefits, but the obvious downside was a deal-breaker if you wanted to run a marathon or fight a bunch of fuckwads bare-knuckled.<p>

Sam had disappeared, and so had the Indie with the scar on his nose. He tried not to focus on her absence, because if he did, he would have to admit that he was beyond concerned about her; He was worried. He knew she could hold her own, that she didn't need him to defend her, but he was still worried. Baird hoped fervently that Sam had slashed one of the Indie's arteries with her makeshift weapon. One less malcontent to worry about.

Tamarkin was lying on the ground, spread-eagled, and had been still for the past several minutes. He now had a broken arm and several fractured fingers in addition to his busted nose, so Baird didn't blame him for taking a breather. The other two men had drawn back to nurse their injuries, a collection of bruises and fractures, and maybe some broken ribs? There had been a lot of awful crunching as he'd been kicking the shorter Gorasni after Baird had flipped him onto the ground.

"Finally done losing?" Baird taunted, the saner part of his brain telling him to shut the fuck up and get away. After what he'd endured as a teenager, Baird wasn't going to just run away when one of his friends was being harassed. His words stirred the men, and they came at him again, albeit with much less enthusiasm. He redirected the momentum of the short one, throwing him into his friend. They collapsed on top of each other. He followed, dealing two quick blows to the short Indie's lower back. The taller one scrabbled out from underneath his friend, and crawled to his feet. He quailed under Baird's gaze, then jerked in shock and stared over Baird's shoulder.

_Ah, the scar guy returns._ He agilely sidestepped his silent attacker, left fist rocketing across his chest and around in a tight circle to crash into the scar of a very surprised Marcus Fenix. Baird's mouth dropped open in shock.

"Marcus?" he asked stupidly.

Marcus was staring at him with a similar look of surprise, blinking furiously. He started to say something, but the words died on his tongue. He palpated his cheek, the outline of a bruise already forming under his fingers. He reached inside his mouth, feeling his teeth. His fingers came back covered in a viscous mixture of spit and blood. He stretched his jaw out and winced. "Ouch."

"Marcus. I didn't see you. I—umm…" His linguistic dexterity had deserted him and left him a mute idiot. Had he really just slugged Fenix in the face? And he was still standing? He'd never seen Marcus this surprised before.

He thought about apologizing, but the empathic side of him had always been runty and underfed, making it easy to ignore. _I've got to get out of here._ He brushed past Marcus, wanting to be alone, his face red with embarrassment. The fact that he had punched Marcus as hard as he could was less embarrassing than the knowledge that his fighting prowess was no longer a secret. Gossip of this caliber would be all over Azura by morning mess. It had been one of the few secrets he'd kept even from Cole; his embarrassment withered into dread when he imagined having _that_ conversation with his friend.

"Baird, stop." Marcus grabbed his arm, arresting his movement.

Baird jerked his arm, but Marcus held fast, his grip tightening. "Let me go, Fenix." The warning note in his tone was impossible to miss.

"No," Marcus said calmly. "Are you ok?"

Baird could feel Marcus' eyes on him, assessing, checking for injuries. Baird couldn't stand to look at Marcus while the man held his elbow like an errant child. Normally he wouldn't stand for this 'big brother' treatment from Fenix, and normally Fenix wouldn't dare lay hands on him, but Baird was past caring. He was just so frigging _tired_. Tired of thieves, tired of liars, and tired of certain people who were weaseling into his private business. "Sam got you?" he guessed, staring at the toes of Marcus' boots. _Why were they wet? _

"Yeah. Pointed me in the right direction."

"I didn't need your help," Baird growled, his pride piqued.

Marcus took in the odd angle of Tamarkin's arm, the absence of the Indie's friends. Brown glass was scattered everywhere. "No, you didn't."

Baird chuffed in annoyance and rolled his eyes. Marcus could repeat any sentiment and make it sound meaningful. Just one more layer of shit added to his 'mystique'. His adrenaline was nearly gone, and the ache of his extremities began to crowd into brain, demanding attention. He tried to make a fist, and a vivid stream of curses paraded through his head when the tendons in his wrists twinged in protest. The altercation would hinder his ability to manage his tools for a few days.

He finally met Marcus' gaze, somewhat perplexed by the apprehension he saw there. He understood Marcus was attempting to be friendly, but he didn't have the desire to tolerate it right now. He was bone weary and ready to sleep for days. "Please, Marcus. Let me go."

Maybe it was the note of real pleading in his voice, or the fact that he had submitted to Marcus. Either way, Marcus gave him a searching look, all heavy brows and narrowed eyes, and nodded once. "Get some sleep, Corporal." He relinquished his grip, and Baird began the long walk back to his room.


	4. Out of the Frying Pan

It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. He barely registered the ride in the elevator. His boots hit the plush carpet of the hallway, and he shuffled down to the end of the corridor. He lurched around the corner, hand rising preemptively to grasp the door handle, when he saw Sam leaning against the wall outside his room, cradling her bloodied hand and favoring her right knee.

Strangely, he wasn't put off by her presence. Even Cole's well-meaning but irritating camaraderie would have pissed him off right now. But he _had_ wanted her to look at the jumbled mess of equations and theories on his desk, right? He hadn't anticipated that it would be on the heels of punching Marcus in the face and defending Sam's honor against a bunch of Gorasni rubes. He sighed for the hundredth time that night, and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, pressing hard enough to see the ghostly afterimages from the corridor sconces.

He took a deep breath and gathered his wits. Sam was a great asset to his team, and she wasn't as irrational as Anya, but she was _still _a woman, and Baird knew she'd ask questions about the bar fight. Questions he didn't want to answer, questions that shouldn't even have arisen. And she wouldn't be satisfied with "let's talk about it later". He hoped he could quell her curiosity and steer her towards their task. He had been close to the answer for days, and the knowledge that he was mere steps away from the solution had driven him into a manic frenzy that gave him blinding migraines at night.

"Didn't think you'd show," he said, giving her a two-finger salute, striving for his usual air of non-chalance.

Sam rested her head against the intricate wallpaper, unwilling to shift her tired body away from the wall. "You said you needed me, so…" she raised her bloodied hand in front of her, "Ta-da."

The words hung in the air, and Baird was suddenly uncomfortable with the assumptions they raised. He had forcefully entered Sam's life with scarcely any knowledge of possible repercussions, and here she was at his doorstep well past midnight, wounded and limping, all because he asked her to _look over _something?

Sam turned her head against the wall when he didn't respond. "Hey, Damon. You gonna ask me in? I'm about ready to fall over, here."

He made a face and pushed the door open. "Ladies first."

"Thanks, Damon. You know how to show a lady a good time."

Again, Baird felt the crushing grip of being caught in a situation that had escaped his control. "If tonight was a 'good time' for you, then the past 15 years must have been a regular frat party," he said, following her inside. He mentally winced; the words were his, but they felt forced.

He needed restful sleep, not the fitful, caffeine-laced catnaps he'd been taking, courtesy of stolen coffee from Hayman's private supply. He always tucked away half of any coffee discovery before handing over the rest, at her insistence that she needed it more than anyone else on the island. She'd have his nutsack for a coin purse if she ever caught him. It wasn't the best coffee, but hell, it tasted as good as fifteen-year old coffee _could _taste, and more importantly, it was a tasty stimulant that didn't come in a syringe. He had nothing against Hayman personally, but she had no more right to it than he did. She could suck it.

"Damon." Sam's voice drew him back to the present. She had settled into one of the plush armchairs in the sitting room, arms thrown over the sides in complete relaxation. Her eyes were riveted on him, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Are you often given over to flights of fancy? Whatcha daydreaming about?"

Baird saw the opportunity to steer the conversation away from the bar fight. "I'm dreaming of the day we reconfigure the engines around this hellhole."

"Hellhole? It's not all bad. Look," she gestured between her legs at the red velvet upholstery, "My ass has never sat in such luxury."

"Yeah, the gilded edges are nice. It's the poisonous lead underneath that I'm worried about."

Sam sighed obnoxiously. "I refuse to indulge your doom and gloom tonight, Damon. Where's this research I'm supposed to eyeball?"

He gulped down his irritation at being brought up short and strode over to his desk. He scooped up the mess of notes and dumped them into her lap with more force than was _strictly _necessary. He left her to thumb through the research and hauled out his toolbox. There were a few more servomotors that required tweaking, and he needed something to keep his hands busy anyway; idle hands always led to more introspection than he was comfortable with, and he'd had quite enough of _that _this evening.

"What's this thing on the engine?" Sam said, breaking the silence.

He glanced at his watch; _how had two hours already flown by?_ He craned his neck over to where she was pointing on one of the diagrams.

"Those are the pistons." He made a motion with his hands. "C'mon Sam, you know that."

"No, asshole, this thing here," She growled, springing up from the chair and shoving it under his nose. It was a old diagram of one of the hotel generator's engines, with differently-colored overlays showing the valves, pistons, and sumps. She yanked the pencil out of his mouth and circled several spots. Baird looked at it carefully, bringing out a few other sketches to compare it with. "Those are the pistons, Sam," he said slowly, almost afraid of her reaction. "Or the piston rings."

She huffed irritably and scribbled an equation on the paper. "Isn't this the normal mixture for Imulsion?"

He eyeballed it critically. "Yes. But any first year engineer could tell you that."

"So what happens if you invert it?"

Baird snorted rudely. "Well, that's a good way to blow yourself up." If all she could come up with was a rehash of the basics of engine mechanics, then he had sorely overestimated her abilities.

Sam took a deep breath and visibly tamped down on her anger. "But Imulsion doesn't combust anymore, right?"

"Right." Baird took a breath of his own, and decided to follow her lead. "The organic quality of Imulsion is what provided effortless combustion. The mixture was dense, unlike fuel from previous eras."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Baird felt his brain shift into high gear, and he suddenly felt lightheaded. He looked down at the diagram, then scratched through the papers until he found the particular diagram he wanted, gleaned from Dr. Fenix's personal research. He closed his eyes, a tapestry of swirling equations and lines dancing into place behind his eyelids. "It's not volatile enough to combust, but if I add this, maybe it could spark, hang on," Baird rambled, shooting up from his seat. He hip-checked a confused Sam out of the way and began rummaging in earnest through the equally cluttered drawers of his desk.

"See, I tried modifying the air intake, then I tried beefing up the spark plugs, but this, if I inverted the fuel mixture percentages and added some of this," he said to her over his shoulder. "Should have thought to look in the library first! Stupid. I'm just fucking stupid. Should have thought about the Bronze Age…"

He leaped to his feet with an arm-load of papers and hastily organized them into piles. Baird whirled around to Sam, who now looked more smug than lost.

"Sam, you're a genius."

"I know," she replied cheekily.

"No, really. You're a genius. Not as smart as me, of course."

Sam punched him in the shoulder. "Exactly _why_ am I a genius?"

He was grinning, genuinely grinning. He shoved a handful of scribbled-on papers with water rings at the corners into her hands. "You just gave me the missing piece to the Imulsion conundrum." He said the last word in a singsong voice.

Sam snorted and quirked an eyebrow in disbelief. "How so? I understand engines just fine, but you know I'm not exactly a quick study in fuel refinery and power conversion."

Baird shook her rather hard by the shoulders, making her drop the papers all over his feet. "Exactly. I was so bogged down in the complex details that I couldn't see the big picture."

Sam made a face. "So I'm an accidental genius, eh?"

Baird gave her a beatific smile and slid his hands up her neck to cup her face. Before she could recover from the shock of such an intimate gesture, he patted her cheek none-too-gently and said, "Then you're an idiot savant. Whatever."

She planted a hand on his chest and pushed him away. "Gee, thanks, asshole."

He continued to grin, his expression one of amusement mixed with respect. "Thank you, Sam."

Sam smiled at his earnestness, her heart speeding up. His touch still lingered on her neck. "What would you do without me?"

"I would have figured it out eventually, of course."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't go tripping over your false modesty."

Baird tilted his head saucily to the side and made a show of looking pious. "I can't help it if I'm blessed with divine intelligence." She made to punch him, but he blocked her fist and dodged it easily. The movement sobered both of them immediately. Breakthrough or no, he couldn't avoid tonight's events forever. And what if that dumbass Gorasni made reprisals? He cycled through several introductory lines, but all of them were either too revelatory or too vague.

"Yeah, that reminds me…" Sam said, taking advantage of his indecision. "Where _does_ a blueblood kid pick up Pesangai?

"I wasn't Marcus, determined to be the opposite of my parents," he said too quickly. Why did _everyone_ always draw that parallel? He and Marcus weren't twins by any means. "It came down to bullies. I was tired of being picked on. I asked my parents for self-defense classes."

"I'm guessing they said 'no."

"Yeah, more like 'no fucking way'. So I hung around the dojos after school, picked up what I could, researched the rest. I guess I could have enrolled myself; it's not like they ever cared where I was." _Why the hell was he talking about his parents? Sam just had this way of turning him into a babbling brook. _

"You mean you're _self-taught_?" She leaned over the desk, mouth open in surprise. It was so out-of-character that it would have been humorous if not for the subject matter.

Baird blushed furiously and scratched the back of his head, embarrassed that she was impressed, but also strangely hurt by her blithe indifference. There was nothing funny to him about getting beaten to a pulp every other day during his youth. "Uh, mostly. The rest I figured out the old-fashioned way."

Sam's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "More research?"

He fixed her with a stare. "Trial and error."

Something in her expression softened, and if she understood that her reaction had bothered him, it didn't show because she didn't apologize.

"So, you kept up the training?" Her voice was rougher now, approaching that husky drawl of hers that crawled down his spine to his hips and made it hard to focus.

"Yeah. Never got much chance to use it after E-Day, but you never know, right?"

"Right." Sam thumbed through the diagrams again, pausing on the sheet with sketches of the huge generators that had powered the Maelstrom. There were several stars drawn in the corner in red ink. "Is this what you're going to tinker with first?"

"No way. If I fuck that up, it would take me months to fix it. I'm starting out small―-the ATVs."

She smacked her face lightly with the pile of papers. "Of course. Makes total sense. I must be more tired than I thought." Sam tapped the paper stack into order on the edge of his desk and laid it aside.

He caught how she tried to hide the small wince as the papers rubbed against her injured hand. For the first time that night, he allowed himself to be truly concerned for her. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the triumph of the Imulsion breakthrough. He marveled at their wanton disregard for any injuries that were less severe than 'sucking chest wound' and 'intracranial hemorrhage'. Sam was tough; he'd have to approach this particular topic with caution: something he wasn't used to doing. Telling her to attend to her wounds would only make her prickly.

He sidled up to her and reached out wordlessly. After enduring a searching glance, she hesitantly placed her hand in his, palm up. The lacerations were beginning to scab over, but tiny slivers of glass still gleamed in the deepest cuts. She hadn't cleaned it yet. _She came straight to you, remember?_ He pressed gently on the heel of her palm, testing the crusty edges of the wound. Sam had not looked away from his face, and he felt her gaze burning into his forehead.

"You should see the other guy," he said, finally meeting her dark eyes. The tension stretched between them for several seconds before Sam relaxed in his grip.

"Been a while since I've used any kind of blade," she said agreeably, playing along.

Baird quirked an eyebrow. "Really? Because you kicked his ass. With one hand." He led her into the bathroom and unzipped the medical kit on the counter. He withdrew the tweezers, and laid aside a folded piece of gauze. "I was genuinely hoping you'd hit an artery, and the world would be short another asshole," he confessed, before she had a chance to tell him that she was _fine _and didn't need his help.

She colored a bit at his compliment, and a smug, satisfied look surfaced on her face. "I was rather spectacular, wasn't I?" Sam said, preening.

"Absolutely," Baird agreed, extracting several slivers and laying them aside on the gauze. He flicked on the tap and dunked her hand unceremoniously under the stream of hot water and scrubbed with the carbolic soap. "I especially liked your improvisation. It's not every man who can say a chick beat him with a beer bottle in a fight that wasn't over welfare checks."

Sam rolled her eyes dramatically. "Are you saying I'm uncouth?"

He withdrew a shard of glass that had escaped his attention and began looping a clean bandage over the area. Sam cleared her throat loudly. "Well, are you? Am I," she paused a moment to think, "boorish?"

There was the tiny hint of a threat in her tone; Sam certainly didn't like being kept waiting, did she? Baird made a mental note to dissect that later when he was alone. He tied off the bandage and fixed her with a pitying look. "Whoa, Sam, slow down on those dictionary words. People might think you're flirting with me."

Her shocked expression quickly morphed to one of indignation. She shoved him back against the counter and strode past him to the door. "Samantha, I'm joking," Baird said, grinning like an idiot, even as his stomach plummeted into his feet. Didn't she know he was kidding? Women had a supernatural ability to send mixed signals. He heaved an internal sigh and started after her. "Samantha, this―"

"I trust you can work out the repair schedule for this week without my blindingly brilliant genius." Sam opened the door and stepped into the hallway, fighting to keep her poker face. It was just so _easy_ to get Damon. "I'm going to enjoy a nice brandy courtesy of Mr. Wallin before retiring to my chambers for my nightly slumber. Good evening, Damon." She turned around and bowed deeply, not trusting herself to catch his eyes or her performance would fall apart. Suddenly his feet were in her vision, and she tried to shut the door on him, but he arrested its movement. He drew her hand up, forcing her to straighten.

"Good night, milady," Baird drawled in the puffed-up voice he normally reserved for making fun of Marcus. He chastely kissed the top of her hand, amusement sparkling in his tired green eyes, before releasing her and quietly shutting the door. Sam tried to think of a witty retort, but the brush of his lips was overloading her brain. After a moment's thought, she limped back down the hallway to the elevators, already replaying the events in her mind. She hadn't been joking about her nightcap.

* * *

><p>"So if we saved the world, how come we keep pulling the graveyard shifts?" Jace said, glancing at Clay over the rim of his cup. Cole had given them hot tea to try and ward off the unseasonably chilly winds coming off the waves. It was more a cup of hot water, but Jace wasn't complaining. He remembered many snow-filled nights where he would have killed for a cup of <em>anything <em>hot.

"I'd rather be hauling my ass around on some quiet game trail than be out in the open, broad daylight, with grubs popping up behind a barricade to Hammerburst my head off."

Jace took another sip and contemplated the bricks under his feet as they passed through yet another park on the way to the start of their patrol route. "Good point," he yawned.

He'd had the last three days off, but he hadn't slept well. It was starting to infringe on his normal calm. Jace worked quietly to adjust his attitude to a more cheerful one. He cycled through one of his many mantras: _Happy to be alive. Happy to have all of my limbs. Happy to be unhappy instead of dead._ He found himself perking up. Perspective really _was_ important.

Anya had downsized patrol routes on the far side of the island from four Gears to just two, and patrol time had lengthened as a result. All in all, it would take an hour to reach the game trail, about four to conduct patrol, and an hour to make it back to the hub. A waste of the day, but at least it promised to be uneventful, Jace reasoned. "Didn't you mention some kinda bee in Anya's bonnet?" He asked his friend.

Clay nodded and drained his cup and cast it aside on the grass."Yup. Reeves and his buddy didn't rendezvous with Anya last night. Got her panties in a twist over it."

"Why's she so torqued out? Guys half-ass shit all the time around here."

"You know how she is, worried about danger. Funny right? Because she's sleeping with Mr. Dangerous himself."

Jace privately thought that Clay was just as scary as Marcus when it came down to brass tacks, but he kept his comments to himself. Clay hated compliments.

"He was probably too tired to come all the way back last night," Clay continued. "And it's dark as fuck once you leave the hub."

Once they reached the beginning of the game trail, both men pushed into an easy jog. The ever-present beach was to their left, about 100 yards away, dotted with the occasional waterlogged Locust corpse. To their right, the foliage rose up steeply around them, with gaps providing only the briefest glimpses at the distant cluster of buildings.

Jace had walked this patrol last week, and he looked for the familiar markers: the pile of rocks, the remains of an old bridge, and the bright orange flags stuck into the ground that marked the patrol where the natural path on grass and stone was hard to see.

They had just reached the turnaround loop when a familiar smell caught Jace's attention. It was heavy, gamey, and tinged with the unmistakable odor of old blood.

"You smell that?" He asked quietly, unslinging his gnasher. He chanced a quick look over his shoulder.

Clay already had his weapon drawn and leveled at the trees. "Some things you don't forget," he whispered back.

_No kidding, and the stench of dried blood was one of them._ Jace indicated he would sweep the shore side of the path. Clay nodded and vanished into the trees. Jace came across the corpse of a Berserker on the beach, nothing but a collection of marbled bones and swollen flesh. He bent over to give the dead creature a quick sniff, just to make sure.

"Jace! Jace!"

He whipped around even before Clay had stopped shouting and stormed up the incline to the trail, plunging into the foliage at a run. Gnasher low and primed, the adrenaline and fear surging through his chest, it was all somehow comforting, like meeting an old friend. Jace felt himself going through the ritual of dismantling his fear, turning it into the calm litany that provided his battle frenzy with a power source.

He abruptly crashed into Clay, who was standing several feet away from a monstrous pile of red and black gore covered in a thick blanket of insects.

"Ugh, what _is _that?" Jace said, covering his mouth with his hand reflexively. He was glad he had woken up too late this morning to avail himself of breakfast.

Clay stooped to pick up a stick, and approached the body. He waved away most of the insects, and crouched down a few feet away. He angled the stick into the swarming mass of tissue and poked and prodded. Jace was about to crack a joke when he saw Clay's eyes widen. He shifted his weight forward, closer, and moved a meaty blob aside slowly. He tentatively reached into the gore with his bare hand, intent upon something Jace couldn't see.

Clay suddenly snatched his hand back as if he'd been burned; something metallic glinted in his fist. "Oh, fuck, fuck. _Fuck_." Clay turned away from the sight and puked up his meager breakfast. He coughed raggedly a few times and threw up again. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to collect himself.

Jace flicked his attention from the mess to his friend, deeply unsettled that Clay had lost his stomach. This was the guy who regularly stacked wounded Locust in bundles and chainsawed them until he was shoulder-deep in giblets.

"What?" He asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

Clay had turned around, his expression stony. He rubbed his forehead with his clean hand, then thrust his fist out for Jace to see. Jace knew instantly what they were.

"It's Reeves. He must have been attacked by an animal or something." There was a lilt to his friend's voice that Jace had only heard when Clay got roaring drunk and talked about his brothers.

Jace stared at the corpse in horror, now able to pick out the vague shape of bones, dull white slivers poking out of the putrescent flesh.

"Do you think it was..."Jace started to say, but Clay shook his head.

"No, not the grubs. This," he gestured at the pitiful remains, "this looks like an animal attack."

"Looks more like he was pulped by a Grinder."

Neither of them voiced the unspoken question: _Where was the other guy?_

"We should move him-_it_. We should move _it_," Jace said. Clay just nodded, clearly far away from the sad spectacle before them. Jace suddenly remembered the psych portion of basic training: 'in cases of field trauma, it's best to dehumanize your enemy/victim. This allows you to operate at maximum efficiency, both for yourself and your fellow Gears'.

But what happened internally when you stopped seeing people and started seeing meatbags? No one Jace trained under had ever thought to address the consequences of such tactics. _Maybe no one thought they'd ever see an end to the war._

He looked to Clay, hoping he'd take the lead, but his friend was staring into the horrific mess, a stormy, faraway look in his hazel eyes. After the initial survey, all Jace could stomach looking at were the sticky cog tags. He sighed and knelt before Reeves, shrugging out of his windbreaker.

"Wait," Clay barked, right as Jace began covering Reeves with his jacket. Jace froze. "Shouldn't we look for evidence?"

Jace gave his friend a sympathetic look. "Evidence? On this? We don't know what to look for, and hardly anything to look _at._ We don't have dental records or any of the shit we used to have to I.D. people."

"But Fenix will probably want to see this. He might know forensics, right?"

Jace studied the bigger man, trying to figure out what Clay was driving at. Avoidance didn't normally figure into his behavior. "Fenix treated school like a buffet: little of this, little of that, from what I heard. Baird would be our forensics man, if anything."

"Someone should get the Doc," Clay said suddenly, seizing on another train of thought. He shook his head and took a breath, and something of the Grub-Killer came back into his demeanor. "I'll, uh, go get her if that's ok. Do you mind staying with the victim?"

The last thing Jace wanted to do was hang out with a body that he had seen playing cards not two days ago, but he understood that Clay was desperate to get away. Reeves had been in his cave detail several times, so he knew him far better than Jace ever had.

"Yeah, man. Just hurry up."

He stared after where Clay had disappeared, already anxious for his friend to return. He consciously turned away from the remains and began reciting the lyrics to a song he often had stuck in his head, trying to put himself at ease. He didn't holster his gnasher, though.

* * *

><p>The group walked down to the makeshift morgue to speak with Doc Hayman soon after receiving her summons. What was left of Pvt. Preston Reeves had been carted off to her to see what information could be gleaned from the injuries he sustained. Baird noticed that Cole had wanted to shy away from the meeting: he didn't want the images he'd see today to taunt him during the night. He knew that Cole didn't have a problem with blood or gore - none of them did, they'd been covered in both more often than not in the last decade or so, thanks to the chainsaw bayonet– but, he didn't like the feeling of helplessness that came when he saw his compatriots in the aftermath of a violent death.<p>

The smell of death hit Baird before they even entered the room, and it clocked him in the chin with a sound uppercut once they passed through the swinging doors to find the doctor.

"Damn," Sam whispered to herself, pressing the back of her hand to her nose and mouth. Baird grunted out an agreement and saw that they all wore similar pinched expressions of disgust.

"Doctor Hayman!" Marcus called, not seeing the older woman in the blindingly white room.

"I'm here Sergeant." The doctor quickly entered the room to meet them. "You might want to suit up unless you feel like getting covered in viscera." She gestured to a nearby wall that housed gowns and gloves for them to use.

Once they were all properly dressed, they passed through the clear plastic panels and into the morgue to see Reeves' remains. It was the first time any of them had seen the injuries that killed the young man and, even with their combined histories of violence, were taken aback by what they saw; Reeves was practically unrecognizable even after the blood had been washed away. To Baird, what was on the table looked less like a corpse and more like poorly tenderized meat. He heard Gus swallow hard a few times, trying to force his gorge back down. _What the hell could have done this_?

"What are we looking at, Doc?" Marcus growled out. Baird was having a hard time reading his expression. Marcus was working that heavy browed look that cast deep shadows over his blue eyes and made him completely inscrutable, but Baird assumed that what he was seeing was a mixture of repulsion, anger and worry.

Hayman gripped one of the corpse's arms and folded it in, moving the loose skin back to show them deep grooves in the exposed ulna. Baird swore he could just see a hint of red bone marrow towards the ends of the scratches. He felt a stab of pity for Reeves – his final minutes must've been terrible.

"It looks like some sort of predator got a hold of him. I couldn't even begin to tell you what it is, though. We don't know anything about the flora and fauna on this island." Hayman moved around to let the group get closer to the corpse to see where the skin was ripped and chunked . "These look similar to what I used to see when soldiers came to me with wretch injuries, but I've never seen anything like this – not with the cuts deep enough to damage the bone."

"What happened to his stomach?" Anya asked. Her question drew Baird's attention down to the ruined hole where his internal organs used to be. He gagged and took in a deep breath, trying to ease his roiling gut, only to gag once more as the horrific smell assaulted him and dared him to inhale that deeply again.

"That's the other odd thing. It looks like Reeves was preyed upon as food. You can see where there are parts that were bitten off. Locusts and Lambent never did that. We're dealing with an _animal _here."

Baird shook his head. "Does that make it more dangerous or less?"

"You tell me, Corporal. Is your peril greater dealing with something that has higher thought processes and sees you as an opponent or something that has a rudimentary reasoning system and sees you as food?" She shrugged. "I don't know. I can tell you, however, that short of being caught by a frag or an exploding Lambent, I've never seen an injury quite like this. We'll all need to be careful and vigilant."

Hayman looked at the body and sighed tiredly. "Whatever happened, this young man fought back, he tried to protect himself. There's something deadly out there, ladies and gentlemen." The doctor pulled the stained sheet back over the cadaver and ushered the squad back into the main room.

* * *

><p>"Anybody up for lunch?" Baird quipped. He was met with varying degrees of disgusted looks from the group and took an involuntary step back, holding his hands up in surrender. "Whoa! <em>Sorry<em>."

"You're hungry after _that_?" Gus asked him. His face was still a little wobbly from the urge to wash the walls with vomit so Baird forgave his incredulity. "I don't think I'm going to eat for a week."

"Really? Because Dizzy and his little helpers are serving up pork chops tonight." Baird raised an eyebrow at his friend, goading him.

"I'm not going to eat until dinner time." Gus amended, nodding to himself in satisfaction. Baird started to respond but Marcus interrupted the conversation.

"Any chance we could get back on track?" he asked, eyeing them both.

"Back on _what _track, precisely? We'd been walking in silence for five minutes." Baird shot back acerbically. Marcus made a production of relaxing his shoulders after they'd tensed at Baird's response. They might be better friends now than before, but there were still times when it was all Marcus could do to not knock the engineer on his ass when he shot his mouth off.

He turned and sent the younger man a cold glare, but Baird only rolled his eyes and shrugged.

"We need to work out our next move. Everyone get what you need and meet me in the common room in twenty minutes." Marcus waited for acknowledgment from each person before turning on his heel and heading to the elevators with Anya.

"Somebody is going to slap the shit out of him one day," she said from beside him. "Please, God, let it be me." She mocked a prayerful pose before letting her hands drop to her sides.

"Baird isn't so bad." Marcus told her.

"Oh, because you're good friends now, right?" she snapped.

Marcus sighed and didn't answer her. He leaned his head against the glass and wondered to himself when the fuck they were going to catch a break.

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later the team was sitting around the coffee table in the common room near Marcus and Anya's quarters. Marcus surreptitiously eyed each member, trying to determine where each one was emotionally. They were all putting on brave faces, but he knew that they were more affected by Reeves' death than they let on. They had gone just long enough without any of their people dying that this felt like the first time all over again. Marcus couldn't decide if it was a blessing or a curse. On one hand, he hated that it drummed up all those old memories of dead comrades, but on the other, he was relieved to find out that he wasn't so calloused and desensitized that he couldn't be stirred by the passing of another person. Dom's face flashed in his mind's eye before he mentally batted it away; he needed to focus on planning their next steps.<p>

"We're going to need to find our other guy." he said. "Anya, who was assigned to partner with Reeves?"

"Uh," Anya flipped through her notes. "That's Johenes."

"I need you to get us information on what route they were taking – our best bet is going to be retracing their steps."

Anya nodded without looking up and made a note to herself on the pad she'd brought along.

"Baird, Cole, pull Jace and Carmine later on to go over the route information once Anya gets it to you. I want the four of you to take the reins on the search." Marcus would've liked to have split them up in order to spread the people he trusted the most into different areas, but he knew that the two men functioned better when they were together; Baird didn't have to worry about how to convey a message without pissing everyone off, and Cole didn't have to worry about Baird's well-being. Marcus knew the former Thrashball star watched his younger friend like a hawk – especially after the system shock of Dom's death.

"What about me?" Sam queried. She was eager to help out – Sam's main drive was to protect her friends and family.

Marcus eyed her a moment. "How's that knee?" He hadn't forgotten how badly she'd been limping when she came to fetch him to break up the infamous bar brawl. She'd told him afterwards that 'one of those Indie fuck-sticks' mule kicked her during the fight.

"It's fine. I checked with Doc Hayman and she said it's just some heavy bruising, but no real damage."

Marcus nodded. "Okay, then. First, team up with Anya. I want the two of you to work out a security plan. Put the squads together and make up the routes. I need the number of boots on patrol doubled and try to get some overlap on each detail just in case something goes down. After that, Anya, you stay on comms – each patrol needs to check in _every hour_. Sam, you'll go with me. We'll fill in whatever blanks need filling for security."

He made sure that everyone understood their roles before standing from his seat.

"The search will start early tomorrow, so let Jace and Carmine know tonight – Anya will have the trail information ready for you first thing. Everyone try to get some rest - we need to be fresh in the morning." The group dispersed as he and Anya walked back to their room. Marcus sat heavily on his side of the bed after they entered.

"What's wrong?" Anya asked, scooting her knees up behind him to massage his tense shoulders.

Marcus dropped his head and sighed at both the pleasure he felt at her touch and his own disquiet about the unfortunate turn of events.

"I'm just wondering if I'm making the right decisions here. Trescu asked me why they follow me and I couldn't answer him. I don't _know_ why." Anya's hands paused in their ministrations briefly before they regained their rhythm.

"I think you're doing that best that anyone could do. No one expected to get marooned on this island and certainly no one expected to encounter any violent animals here. You can't know everything, Marcus. You can only act on each unpredictable situation as it's presented to you." She leaned in to kiss the nape of his neck. "And we follow you because you're a good leader – we respect you. Besides, given your part in war these last few years, there isn't anyone better suited for the job."

Marcus craned his neck to look at her disbelievingly from the corner of his eye.

"I know. Bullshit." Anya smiled sheepishly for a second. "I guess the real answer is that I don't know why we're willing to follow you to such ends. It's just... a quality about you. Your particular brand of mystique." She shrugged. "What makes anyone a leader? Why did we follow Prescott all the way to near extinction? It's something about you, Marcus. It's inexplicable."

Marcus turned forward and sighed. "I never wanted to be in charge. I never wanted to be in a position to send Gears to their potential deaths."

Anya wrapped her arms around his broad chest from behind. "I know. But here you are."

Marcus barked out a laugh and nodded his head. "That's about the shape of things, isn't it? _Here we all are_."

"We'll make the best of it, Marcus, all of us. And, no matter what happens, I'm with you."

He grasped Anya's arms and maneuvered her forward and around to his front before pulling her into a kiss. She quickly pressed her chest to his and straddled him, deepening the contact. She ground her hips into his, swiveling them the way she knew he liked and letting him know that tonight wasn't ending with just a kiss.

"I thought I said to rest up." Marcus joked lightly even as he trailed his hands up her sides to cup her breasts.

"Mm hmm. After." Anya pressed into him again, already slipping her hands under the hem of his soft t-shirt.

* * *

><p>The sun had only been up ten or fifteen minutes, but Sam had been awake for the better part of an hour. She knew that Baird's squad would move out early this morning to retrace the route that the missing recon detail had taken. Given the state of poor Reeves' body, she doubted they'd find anything pleasant. Sam's worry for the men in general, and Damon specifically, had kept her up most of the night. She had tossed and turned, her active imagination showing her every horrible way that her friends could be hurt.<p>

Sam pulled out from her fetal position and rolled onto her back, stretching briefly. She levered herself into a sitting position and felt her dark hair brush about her shoulder blades. She normally kept it short, but had been too lazy in past months to cut it, even though it irritated her. Sam swung her legs over the side of the bed and dragged her toes back and forth in the soft carpet as she thought about the upcoming mission. A knot of dread grew in her stomach; she didn't want them to go. The soldier in her understood the necessity – they had to find the missing Gear, dead or alive – but the friend in her wanted them all to stay where she could see them until this mess was resolved. Marcus could send whomever he wanted as long as it wasn't Damon or Cole or Jace or Carmine. She quietly scoffed at herself. She knew how capable these men were. More importantly, she knew that Gus would never let anything happen to Damon – he'd guard him with his life if it came down to it.

Sam's stomach did a greasy roll at the thought of either man being hurt or killed. She was moving towards her hotel room door before she even realized it. She didn't bother with shoes or a bra, or with changing out of the shorts she'd slept in. It was early yet; she doubted she'd meet anyone on the way up.

Sam knocked quietly when she reached Damon's door and waited impatiently for him to open it. She was just about to try again when it swung open to reveal a shirtless Damon Baird. She forced herself to stop molesting him with her eyes and looked up to meet his quizzical green orbs.

"Sam? What's up?" Damon asked, moving aside to let her in.

"Couldn't sleep." she answered, looking around the room. Damon's kit was laid out meticulously on his bed. He must've been up a while, too. She could see where he'd been cleaning his weapons at the desk on the far wall.

"Why not?" He moved around her to grab his cotton shirt off of his chair and pulled it over his head. Sam briefly mourned the loss and moved to sit in an open space on his bed.

"Just... worried, I guess. We don't know what's out there." Sam traced the shapes on the duvet as she spoke, not wanting him to see the naked fear that was doubtlessly showing in her eyes just then.

"That's true, but we're not going in unaware this time. Whatever it is, it'll have a hard time catching us off guard." Damon shoved some of his armored plating aside and sat in front of her, close enough that their knees touched. "Anyway, we've dealt with worse, if you recall. You _were_ there."

Sam huffed out a laugh. "I was worried then, too." She smiled ruefully at Damon and noticed that his eyes quickly flicked from her breasts to her eyes. She became hyper-aware of the fact that she'd forgone a bra when she decided to come see him. Sam felt her body flush with heat and she hoped that her suddenly hardened nipples weren't showing too obviously through her thin top. Sam mentally wrestled the horny demon that lived in her loins and beat it into submission. _Now is not the time for that._

"Are you cold?" Damon asked suddenly.

"What?" Sam ripped herself from her thoughts to focus on the blonde in front of her.

"You have goose bumps. Are you cold?" Damon ran a warm hand down her arm as if to show her where they were.

"No, I.." _No, I just want us both to take our clothes off and – stop it!_ Sam mentally slapped herself, wishing she had a bucket of ice water. Damon cocked his head at her, but didn't pursue the line of questioning.

"What made you come up here? Dizzy probably had breakfast ready for the early birds."

"I wanted to see you." Sam sighed internally at the statement. "I mean, I wanted to check in before you all left."

"Oh." It was his turn to avoid eye contact. "Did you go to the others?"

"No, just you," she answered. Her stomach tightened in anticipation, but Damon didn't respond. He only looked at her as if sizing her up. Sam felt a charge in the air although she couldn't pinpoint what it was.

"I wanted to tell you to be careful. And to be sure and come back," she continued.

Damon blinked at her and shifted to sit akimbo in front of her. "Gus is worried, too. He hasn't said anything yet, but seeing Reeves got to him."

"Were they friends?" Sam asked.

"Everyone is friends with Gus." He reminded her, laughing quietly.

"Do you think he's scared?"

"He'd be crazy not to be." Damon shrugged and looked around the room as he chose his next words. "But, it isn't so much fear as exhaustion, I think. We were supposed to be safe. The war is over, but here we are again wondering which of our buddies is going to get killed next. It's tiresome."

Sam moved closer to him, trying to offer whatever comfort she could. Even though the two of them had gotten a lot closer of the last days and weeks, this was the first time he'd talked to her with such candor. Damon Baird was never without his armor of sarcasm.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, Gus is the bravest man I know, but seeing so many people die… it gets to him. Well, it gets to everyone, of course, but Gus cares _so much_ – even about people he doesn't know. I sometimes wonder how he carries all of that around. I couldn't." The look in Damon's eyes as he spoke was something Sam couldn't put a name to.

"But, don't you already? You have friends that you care about." Sam lifted her other leg onto the bed to mirror Damon and rested her elbows on her knees.

"True enough. I guess I don't understand how he can like everyone he comes across." Damon chuffed a laugh, "I should be thankful, though. Otherwise, he wouldn't be friends with me. I'm not exactly a fun guy to be around."

"Don't sell yourself short, Damon. Sure, you're a prize winning asshole sometimes, but you come around eventually," Sam teased.

Damon sent her a half smile and rolled his eyes. "Not really. That may just be specific to you and Gus." He thought a moment, "And Bernie."

"Oh, I feel so special, Damon!" Sam laughed out, patting him on his knee. She glanced at the armor plating strewn about the bed and quickly sobered up. "What do you think you'll find out there?"

Damon sighed heavily. "Ideally? Johenes huddled in some hole waiting for back-up. Most likely? Bloodied COG tags." He shrugged and shook his head. "I'm hoping we don't run into whatever mauled the fuck out of Reeves."

Sam felt worry bubble up in her chest and wind its spindly fingers around her heart. All the horrific images she'd conjured up while she slept ran across her mind's eye at high speed. The thought of her guys meeting up with some unknown threat and her being too far away to help made her feel useless and afraid.

"Promise you'll be careful and look out for each other." She reached out and gripped his forearms tightly, trying to convey how serious she was in her request.

"Yeah, of course we will." Damon's eyebrows had shot to his hairline at her vehemence.

"Right. Say it, though. _Promise_ me."

Damon watched her for a few silent moments before responding.

"Okay, I promise." He broke eye contact with her when he said it and Sam couldn't identify the expression in them when his eyes floated back to her.

She didn't think very much about her next actions. She followed her instincts and hoped that she hadn't been misreading the signals. Sam transferred her grip to his shoulders for leverage and pulled herself towards him. She paused when she got close, giving him a chance to pull away. When he didn't she closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was borderline chaste, but Sam reveled in it all the same. She sighed through her nose before pulling back, allowing a few scant inches of space between them. Sam licked her lips and opened her eyes to watch him, trying to gauge how he was taking it.

She noticed the look of uncertainty showing in his eyes before they flicked back down to her lips. She took in a breath to speak, but Damon had already slid his hands to the nape of her neck and pulled her back down to him. She didn't try to stifle the quiet whimper that escaped as heat flooded her body again. Sam moved her hands down and around Damon's back, encircling him with her arms.

_Finally_, she thought as she leaned into him. Damon deepened the kiss and moved his hands from the back of her neck to trace his calloused fingertips along either side of her collar bone and between her breasts, coming to rest on her hips. He finally pulled back from her for breath and loosed a quiet laugh.

"Well, that was sudden." He said, trying to escape the heaviness of the mood. The humor fell flat, though, and Sam could still read the uneasiness in his face. Her stomach clenched at the thought that maybe he hadn't wanted what she'd wanted. She forced a smile onto her face and tried to play along with him.

"I figure making out with you is a sure-fire way to kick-start your sense of self preservation." Sam fell back from him, folded her hands into her lap and looked away. She felt like a fool. "Anyway, I'd better let you finish preparing."

She tossed him a tight smile and made her way to the egress.

"Sam…" he called after her. "Samantha. Hang on a minute."

She turned halfway to him, her hand still on the door handle ready to make a quick get-away if this turned into a 'it's not you, it's me' speech.

"Look, I don't mean to mix you up, okay? And it's not that I hadn't been… waiting on that kiss, but-"

A sharp knock came at the entryway and Gus' voice rang from beyond, telling Damon that they were heading out in five minutes. Damon sighed and looked at her with an apology in his eyes.

"I meant it when I said to be careful." She told him quietly.

"I know, and I will be. We all will. And…we'll talk after, I promise."

Sam nodded once and turned to leave only to quickly turn back to Damon and pull him into a tight hug. That he came willingly bolstered her spirits and had her sliding her hands up to tangle in his thick hair and pressing her lips to his again.

"I'll see you when you get back, then." The hopeful feeling that spread throughout her body was only tempered by the apprehension she felt about the mission and the pending talk.

* * *

><p>Baird quickly made his way down to main foyer to meet the rest of the squad after hastily putting on his gear. When he arrived at the meeting place, though, only Gus was there lounging on one of the chaises spread across the ornate carpets – looking inexplicably comfortable for a man decked out in armor plating. Baird tapped him on shoulder to announce his arrival and took the seat next to him.<p>

"I could've sworn I was late." He said.

"Nah, not really."

"Where are the others?" Baird asked, looking around the sprawling room for Jace and Carmine.

"Oh, you'll be happy about this. Carmine happened across a crate full of emergency supplies -including rechargeable flashlights. I sent them to get us a few." Cole finally opened his eyes and shot a smug smile to Baird. "They'll be back here in a minute."

"Flashlights? You mean we won't have to rely on our armors indicator lights to guide us through the pitch? It's as if someone read my diary and granted my most secret wishes."

"Uh huh. I'll tell Carmine you said 'thanks'. Anyway, there are more important things for us to be talking about right now. " Gus shifted from his reclined position so he could look see Baird without straining his neck.

"Such as?" Baird asked, slightly put off by the gleam in his best friends eye.

"Such as? Such as, guess who I saw coming out of your room this morning?" Gus dropped his chin and gave Baird a challenging under eyed look.

"Me?" Baird hedged.

"No, Baird, it wasn't you. What was _Sam_ doing in your bedroom in the wee hours of the morning? I want details, man. You can't have major changes in your life without telling me about them!" Gus lightly shoved Baird's shoulder in punishment for holding out on him.

"Life changing? No, no, no. She was in there maybe ten minutes, Gus. Seriously. She just came by because she was worried about the mission today."

"And?" Gus cajoled.

"And, she made me promise that we'd all be careful. That's it." Baird shrugged and looked away. He never had been a convincing liar.

"That's it?" Gus asked doubtfully.

Baird's mouth opened and closed as he warred with himself on whether or not to tell Gus everything.

"And… she. Well, she kissed me." Baird said quietly.

"What?"

"Keep it down, Gus! Damn, man, I don't need any more information about me floating around this place.'

"Sorry, sorry." Gus looked appropriately contrite for a moment before a wide grin spread across his face. "Look at you, getting in with the ladies."

Baird rolled his eyes and prayed for his friend to find something else to be interested in.

"It's not _ladies_, it's Sam. And it's not a big deal, Gus. _Really_."

"Uh, that's a big, fat lie. You and Sam gettin' all warm and fuzzy for each other is a pretty big deal." Gus retorted.

"No, it's –"

"Was it a good kiss? Did you let her touch Big Jim and the Twins?" he joked.

"What? You're really fucking with me about this? I'm already bewildered enough about this whole thing and I don't need you making it worse." Baird's shoulders slumped. "I just don't know where this is all coming from and until I figure it out, I don't want to talk about it."

Gus leaned back and raised his eyebrows at Baird, but didn't answer. Baird felt a brief shot of regret that he'd offended the older man when he snapped at him, but he quickly stamped down on it. Whatever was happening between him and Sam was _not_ up for discussion – not before he'd talked it out with her.

The clanging of metal boots interrupted the awkward silence that had fallen and Jace and Carmine came into view.

"Look who decided to join the party." Jace greeted them. " Kick any asses today, Baird?" The younger man began to playfully shadowbox around Baird.

"Oh, I see you've got jokes this morning. I'm overwhelmed with joy that I could be here to hear them." Baird sent him an unamused look before standing from his chair. "I heard tell of flashlights?"

* * *

><p>The four men surveyed the ruined face of the abandoned lab with trepidation. There was nothing yet to indicate the whereabouts of Johenes, which meant they were going to have to go inside.<p>

"Oooh, this place is _snazzy_." Jace piped up, eyeing the scarred building. "Shazaam."

Baird had to give it to Jace: he did always try to lighten the mood even if, this time, the humor came off a little bit stilted. He could understand why, though. Just being here made his skin crawl. Part of him was screaming for them to turn around and rush back to safety. Baird was sure that he didn't want to meet whatever monster had mangled Reeves' body into a mess that was only a step or two from being human soup. There wasn't any telling what they'd find beyond those heavy doors, but the fact that they looked like they were made of reinforced steel gave him some idea. _Stupid fucking scientists. They never learn_. He wondered how many times the COG had used 'for the good of the nation' as an excuse to shove the barrel of a metaphorical gun against its peoples' heads. Baird wasn't sure what pissed him off more; the fact that he and his friends had to keep suffering for their idiotic ideas or the fact that most of these so-called geniuses weren't around to see how wrong they'd been about the pansophy they'd believed themselves to be so possessed of.

"Okay, the building doesn't seem too big. We'll take it floor by floor. Cole, Carmine, you two take the left. Jace and I will take the right. We'll meet up at the center of the back wall." Baird looked at each man, "Above all, we stay in contact with each other, got it?"

The three men nodded at him and pulled their lancers from the holsters on their backs. The sound of fresh clips being slotted into the rifles was both comforting and frightening. The men settled smoothly into roles they hadn't played in months. Each of them took up defensive postures and stretched their senses to pick up on every little detail, every possible threat.

"Breaching in three, two, one." Cole and Carmine used their considerable combined weight to burst through the door and into the darkened room. The sunlight only traveled so far into the space and what little did get in cast odd shapes and shadows on the nearby walls and floor.

"Good thing you found these flashlights, Carmine." Cole said quietly.

"Jace. On me." Baird looked to Cole and gave him a quick nod, a silent message to be safe. He and Jace moved off to search the right side of the room. Each team moved slowly in a grid, sweeping their lights from left to right. They looked for any sign of the missing soldier – any sign of _anything_, really. So much weird shit had gone down on the island lately that the list of what they might find here was endless.

Baird's comm crackled in his ear. "Nothing on our end yet, but do you smell that?"

He took a moment to scent the air. "Yeah. What _is_ that? It seems familiar, but I can't place it."

"I was hoping you could tell me. Damn."

"Alright, let's keep looking, see if we can find the source." Baird checked behind to make sure Jace was doing OK. The younger man had his back to Baird, watching their six. He turned when he felt Baird's eyes on him and gave him a curt nod before taking up his post again.

The teams began moving towards the back wall again. They didn't find anything to clue them in to the smell, but they did note that all the furniture and tools were in good condition. Nothing had been toppled or broken. It's like someone came in, cleaned up and then abandoned the place. It put them all on edge. Something wasn't right.

"Stay frosty, everyone. I have a bad feeling," Baird said, depressing the button on his comm so Cole and Carmine heard the warning as well.

"Copy that." Came the response.

The men met at the other end of the room as planned minutes later.

"This place is fucking weird, man. Let's finish up and get out of here," Jace said. Baird knew he was a solid soldier, but his expression said that this place made him feel like he was going to be snatched up by some monster from the old wives tales he'd heard growing up. And, he was only saying what they were all thinking.

"It may not be a quick bang, Jace. We don't know how far down the place goes and we have to check everything." Baird shrugged. "Let's get moving." They made their way quietly to the stairwell in the far corner. Baird eased the door open and took a low position with Jace covering high.

"All clear," he called softly. He noticed that the steps only went down one floor. "Maybe you'll get your wish after all, Jace. Looks like we've only got the floor below to clear."

Baird ate his words when they pushed open the door exiting the stairwell. It was just one floor, but it was easily four times the size of the one above it.

"Or not." Jace sighed.


	5. I, Monster

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in posting - real life came around and had its way with me. However, you may now feast your eyes upon my apology! Also, and this is important, from here on out, that M-rating is _really going to mean something_. So, if adult situations tickle you the wrong way... well, let's just say you've been warned. Read on, my lovelies, and thank you, thank you, thank you for your support.

* * *

><p>"Well, fuck." The four men stood crowded in the doorway, looking at the vast expanse before them. Baird was the first to move forward into the dimly lit room. He scanned the walls and found a sliding light switch, pushing it all the way up and bathing the room in fluorescent light. The men winced and squinted as their eyes rushed to adjust to the abrupt radiance.<p>

Cole moved up to stand next to his friend as he surveyed the area with a scrutinizing eye. "This is going to suck like a vacuum, isn't it?"

"Mm hmm," Baird agreed. "Most assuredly."

Baird turned to address Carmine and Jace as they moved forward. "Ok, most of this looks pretty innocuous. Everybody pick an area and look for anything that looks suspicious or out of place. If you find any kind of notebooks or journals, pick them up and hold on to them. I'll use them for research later on."

Baird walked to the center of the room and turned in a slow circle, letting his eyes un-focus a bit to see if anything caught his attention and forced him to focus on it. It was a trick he'd learned back when he was in his 'I'm going to lose everything' phase; as soon as he stopped trying to find whatever he was looking for, it popped out at him like a beacon. Three quarters of the way into the turn, his attention zeroed in on a terminal in the far corner of the room. _Jackpot._

He made his way over to the terminal and powered it up, waiting only a few seconds before being prompted for a password. _Ah, to hack or not to hack_. Reeves's mangled body flashed in his mind briefly, pushing away any doubts. Baird rolled an office chair over and was about to start dismantling the security system when Cole's voice interrupted him.

"Baird, come take a look at this," Cole called. "I think I found another door." His voice sounded vaguely questioning, as if he wasn't entirely sure of himself.

"A door?" Baird asked as he made his way over. "Like, a secret door that would be almost entirely too cliché to be believed?"

Cole shot him a perplexed look and didn't answer.

"Sorry, force of habit." Baird shrugged. "Ok, let's see… what makes you think it's a door?"

"You can see the outline around it. Look." Cole traced a vague rectangle in the air. "I just don't see how to open it."

"We could try blowing it up," Jace offered from behind them. He and Carmine had moved up behind them once they'd finished searching their chosen areas.

"No," Baird argued.

"I'm just saying that it's been a shitty couple of days and blowing something up would make everyone feel better."

Baird stared at him for a moment, trying to gauge how serious he was, before responding. "We're _not_ using grenades."

Jace shrugged his regret. "Every party needs a pooper, I guess."

Baird rolled his eyes and moved away from the group. "I found a working terminal over here. Maybe there's something here that will open the door for us - some kind of security measure." He stopped and eyed the three men. "If not, we'll go with the explosives, okay?"

He heard Jace quietly celebrate with a drawn out 'yes' as he made his way back to the computer he'd found. He made himself as comfortable as possible in the armless office chair and began his battle with the security system. He found himself a little disappointed at how easily he cracked the password. It occurred to him that, most likely, whoever worked here never thought that someone from the outside would even find out about this place, let alone enter it and start snooping through their files. In-house security may not have been paramount.

As he searched, he found more and more information caches that he desperately wanted to take along with him – folders with mysterious names like Project Z10-B and Subject 17-A. He knew that there was a wealth of information here, but he didn't have the time to peruse the files the way he wanted. Baird began making plans to return soon with the correct tools so he could safely remove the hard drive and take it back to his workshop for a closer look. Perhaps he could combine what he found here with the information that Professor Fenix had given him, to try to build a more complete picture of Azura and her secrets.

"Okay, I think I've got it." Baird had forced his way into the program that controlled all the locks around the compound. It worried him, though, that he couldn't control one door at a time; either everything was locked down or it was open. He quickly typed in a command and swiveled in his chair to watch the hidden door slide open with a quiet hiss. Jace's shoulders slumped in disappointment as he let out a sad sigh.

"Don't worry, I'm sure we'll find something to maim or destroy before the day is done." Baird patted Jace on the shoulder as he made his way past him and through the opening.

His pace slowed as he took in his new surroundings. It was a far cry from the clean lines and pure white of the room they'd just left. This area looked like it had been abandoned for several years. Nature had reclaimed the room, sending roots and vines through cracks in the walls and ceiling. Some had even unseated the tiles and blanketed the floor in foliage. The temperature was markedly cooler; he felt a shiver run down his spine, but he wasn't sure if it was just his body adjusting to the change in the air, or a physical reaction to the knot of apprehension that was growing in his gut.

"Everyone _be careful_." Baird told his squad as they lifted their rifles. Something was wrong here. He could feel it, and his 'you're about to go knee-deep in shit' alert had never steered him wrong before.

Once the group cleared the short, narrow hallway that led to the main area, they instinctively formed into pairs; Baird and Cole each heading a column with Jace and Carmine behind them watching their six. The group had gone silent; they were waiting and ready for things to go sideways.

"There's that smell again" Carmine said in a low voice.

"I know. I still can't place it, though," Baird answered.

A high-pitched squeal had the team spinning left, lancers trained on the overgrowth. Baird felt his stomach shrivel up in anticipation, but after a few moments of tense waiting, nothing happened.

"I feel let down," Jace whispered.

"Shut up, Jace," Baird called back. "Keep moving."

The four men made their way down a meandering path created by the plants that had made their home in the area, but came to a sudden stop when another squeal was heard – this time from ahead of them.

"So, I guess it's safe to say that we're not alone here."

Baird reached back and switched his lancer for his gnasher. If they ran across whatever was making the racket, he wanted to do maximum damage with one shot. He nodded and the team moved slowly moved forward again. The path they were on came to a sudden end and the suffocating flora fell back to reveal an open area that looked like it had been cleaned out recently. The dim lighting only revealed vague shapes and cast the room in a mercurial haze.

Sudden flashbacks of walking into the Locust stronghold flooded his mind's eye, and he found himself hoping that whatever was about to go down here didn't turn into a comparable clusterfuck.

"This place is plain _nasty_," Cole remarked as he nudged an unidentifiable gelatinous mass with the toe of his boot. "Seriously, what the fuck is this? An egg sac?"

"I hope not. That would mean that these little beasties are reproducing, and that would be a very bad thing," Baird answered, even as his stomach dropped to his knees and he sent up a fervent prayer that they hadn't just la-di-da'd their way into the animal's den. _Please, God, don't let this be a nest._

The group moved forward cautiously, trying to watch every direction at once. The shifting shadows and the oppressive air did nothing to ease the growing paranoia each man was feeling.

"Shit! Did you see that?" Carmine exclaimed from behind Baird and Cole. "Something just ran passed me."

"You're sure? What did it look like?" Baird asked in rapid fire.

"I'm not sure, it was just a shadow. It was small, though. Maybe wretch sized. Maybe a little bigger -"

"He's right, one just moved on my side. I didn't get a good look, either," Jace called out.

_Well, thanks for nothing_, _God. _"Damn it. Ok, it's about to get loud."

The high squeals were coming in faster now; apparently whatever was in here with them had come to a similar conclusion. Baird briefly wondered about retreating and returning with flamethrowers, but was interrupted when a dark shape scuttled towards him at breakneck speed. He wasted no time swinging the business end of his shotgun around and pulling the trigger. The thing gave off a pitiful squeak as the concussive force of the blast sent it flying backwards.

"Game on, baby," Cole muttered.

The blast must've been like the opening shot in a foot race to the animals in the room. They ran in from every direction, moving so quickly that it was hard for Baird to keep track of them. The squad called out warnings and locations to each other, staying in an outward facing circle to keep each other from being overwhelmed. Baird's ears rang from the loud booms of his gnasher and the distinct _rat-tat-tats_ of the lancers.

The attack ended as suddenly as it began, with the dying whimper of one of the animals signaling a cease-fire. The brief silence that followed was heavy and deafening – as if the room itself was holding its breath.

"What are these, Baird?" Cole asked.

"How the hell should I know?" Baird snapped, angry that what should have been a simple fetch mission had turned sour. He heaved a sigh. "We still need to find Johenes and we should take back one of these…_things_ for Dr. Hayman to look at."

A loud, deep growl interrupted Baird's orders. The four men quickly aimed in the direction the sounds seemed to come from – waiting for round two. They took a collective step back when the shadows seemed to merge and grow. A hulking mass about chest high rose from the tangled growth and began to hiss and growl at the men. They tracked it as it moved slowly left, towards the center of the room. The scant light revealed portions of its body – bipedal, inky black skin and long, razor-sharp claws.

The animal began to grunt low in its chest, the staccato sound coming in faster and faster. The men felt the air around them thicken and each instinctively shifted his weight in preparation to move. The animal suddenly let loose a bellowing cry, lowered its head, and charged the group, missing each one as they dived out of the way.

"Take that bitch down!"

Its method of attack reminded Baird of various run-ins with berserkers, but the creature in front of him now proved that it was surprisingly agile and much more aware of its surroundings. Once it realized that it hadn't connected with anything, it did a fast pirouette and stampeded back in the direction it had come from. Baird switched from his gnasher back to his rifle and joined the others in firing on the monster, hoping the rain of bullets would force it to keep its distance. His stomach clenched when he realized that their efforts, while causing obvious damage, only gave the beast the briefest of pauses.

It made a sudden change of direction on its next running pass, narrowing its attention on Jace and barreling towards him. Jace made to dive to the side again, but a raised root arrested his movement and tripped him up. He hit the ground with a grunt, his right hip taking most of his crashing weight. It was upon him faster than he could get the nose of his rifle up, leaving him only enough time to use the side of the lancer as a shield when the monster's sharp claws came down on him in a powerful flurry of deadly blows. Jace cried out when one of the melee attacks connected. Three of the animal's claws were deflected by his metal gauntlets but two of them managed to shear the exposed skin, sending a small spray of blood onto his face.

The others raced towards the battling duo, having let off their triggers to avoid injuring Jace in a deadly hail. Cole reached the two first, and lunged at the creature while revving his chainsaw bayonette. It screamed when the teeth of the saw bit into its skin. It struggled to perform an about-face in an attempt to disengage from the assault, leaving Carmine an open shot at getting to Jace. He dragged the younger man away from the fight, not responding to Jace's protestations of 'I'm fine!'. As it turned to attack Cole, Baird rushed it from the other side, sending the butt of his lancer into the side of its misshapen head. The crushing blow sent the creature staggering sideways. It fell back, stunned and cradling its head, loosing a whimper as pitiable as that of a wounded dog.

_Fuck you_. "Kill that thing," Baird ordered, lifting his lancer again. Cole was already a step ahead of him, taking out his shotgun and sending two quick blasts at the monsters legs. As it crashed to its knees with a keening cry, Cole leveled the nose of his shotgun at its face and pulled the trigger. A third of the monstrosity's skull separated from the main mass and skittered across the floor. It fell backwards with a dull thud, twitching in its death throes.

"Doctor Hayman won't need its _whole_ head to study it, right?" Cole questioned.

"No," Baird answered. "In fact, I daresay we did her a favor. If she wants to take a look at the thing's brain… well, there it is. All out in the open for her." He slapped Cole on his massive shoulder and turned to make his way to Carmine and Jace.

"How's the arm?"

"It's _fine_." Jace said, sending an annoyed look to Carmine. "It's _literally_ just a scratch."

"A nasty one," Baird murmured.

"It's not that bad!"

"No, I mean _nasty_. As in, we don't know what that thing had been digging around in. There could be all kinds of bacteria swimming around in your bloodstream right now."

The offense washed from Jace's face as he thought about the mélange of germs that were probably attacking him right now. He visualized the amoebas devouring his red and white blood cells before mentally slapping himself back into reality.

"Gross," he said.

"No kidding," Baird responded, sending a slightly disgusted look at the still-bleeding gouges. "Ok, we still need to find Johenes. Carmine, why don't you and Jace go clean his wounds in the other room? It's a lot less… cesspool-y than this place. Cole and I will look for our guy and bag up the beastie."

* * *

><p>Baird and Cole came through the hidden door twenty minutes afterwards, dragging a shiny black body bag behind them.<p>

"You found Johenes?"

Baird frowned and held up his fist, showing them a set of bloody tags with a broken chain. Jace opened his mouth to ask another question, but clamped it shut when he noticed how the skin was tightening around Baird's eyes. His frown had dipped deeper at the corners than Jace had seen in months.

"That the bad guy?" Carmine asked.

"Most of him," Cole answered with a shrug. "C'mon, y'all. Let's get the fuck out of here."

* * *

><p>"Damon?"<p>

Her quiet voice cut through the buzzing chatter of a thousand different worries clamoring in his brain. He turned to find her leaning against the blindingly white walls of the medical wing, arms crossed in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability. He didn't know how long she had been there. How many hours had passed? Her eyes were inky black, their usual humor gone, replaced by an endless chasm. She was afraid. Immediately, his words came back to him. "_And...we'll talk after, I promise."_ He licked his lips and glanced through the window. Hayman and her proteges were already swarming around the monstrosity's body. Marcus stood by in ill-fitting scrubs, looking both absurdly out-of-place and menacing all at once. Baird knew he was supremely uncomfortable working with Hayman alone, but fuck, he needed to get away. He said he would revisit Dr. Fenix's research _immediately,_ but all he gave a shit about was escaping to be alone. But Sam...she looked so lost.

He shook his head vigorously, trying to dispel the concern welling up in chest. He was worried for his friends, worried for Sam. Worried for Sam in a different way that pinched his heart and made him draw a quick breath of surprise.

"Sam, I need to look into Dr. Fenix's research." He gripped her shoulders with more confidence than he felt. "Would you go to the workshop and keep things on schedule? Please?" Even with the pleading tone, she still didn't make eye contact. He stared at her collarbone, the swell of her breasts underneath the dirty tank she wore. "Please, Samantha. I haven't forgotten what I promised." His voice was rough even to his own ears.

"I'll be waiting," she replied after a moment's pause. She covered his hands with hers, briefly, before moving away down the hall, her back resolutely turned on him. He sighed aloud and went the opposite direction. He would do right by Sam. He would. He just needed to make sure that they weren't going to be mauled in their beds first.

He managed to avoid everyone who would have waylaid him, making it back to the solitude of his room in record time. He closed the door quietly, relieved, and jammed one of the bistro chairs under the handle for good measure. He didn't want anyone, even Cole, disturbing him just now. Ever since they'd stepped through that secret little door that hid the lab ruins (and yet another testament to the monstrosity of humanity), he'd endured the peculiar sensation that.…_something_…was impending. Like animals fleeing before a vicious storm, Baird couldn't shake the gut feeling that something was _off _with him. It was the antsy tightness in his chest, the staggering hysteria that overwhelmed him at regular intervals when he disengaged from the present and cast an eye to the future. With the Locust, the COG had learned that there was _always _something nastier waiting in the wings, so realistically, these creatures were tame compared to the Lambent.

_But I'm tired of having my twisted imagination justified. _Baird was ready to leave the past behind, but he was positive that the consequences from the past were so far-reaching that humanity was just delaying the inevitable. Even by his standards it was a callous thought, but he didn't care if humanity was ultimately doomed—he just wanted reliable electricity and access to tools. And perhaps a certain Kashkuri in his bed; he could wing the rest.

The nervous fluttering in his chest crescendoed suddenly. Baird experienced a moment of weightlessness before drawing a sharp breath. He clenched his chest with a hand and bent over as his heart pattered out a few extra beats in time with the jangling of his heightened nerves. The pain was layered, complex: like a fine wine. First the initial stab, a lightning bolt of ice straight through his heart, then the dull, throbbing thuds in the aftermath. It had been over 20 years since he last experienced this particular sensation, but he knew what it was instantly. He had always suspected the heart palpitations he experienced frequently as a kid were really the calling card of a slight arrhythmia. The insomnia, the caffeine, his general anxiety…it all fell into place.

He maintained the pressure on his chest and shifted to the bed. He bent to unlace his boots, grimacing as the pain returned anew. He shrugged out of his plates and reclined gingerly, alternating shallow and deep breaths. Baird focused on the silence in his room, pushing back uselessly against the barrage of memories that assaulted him. His inexplicable failure in gym class when he was twelve, the expensive specialist his parents ordered to the house…"_His __baseless anxieties are likely the cause of the heart palpitations. It might be good to enroll him in some extracurriculars—not Thrashball, obviously, but—"_

"Obviously," he mocked aloud, interrupting the memory. He squeezed his pectoral with vicious force, willing the pain to recede. He had forgotten about his arrhythmia until now, and Baird had the sinking feeling that the heart pain and the appearance of the beasties wasn't a coincidence. Delta & Co would shit enough bricks to sink the _Sovereign _if they found out about his 'condition'. But he also had _no_ confidence in his ability to hide the symptoms totally, especially given how annoyingly observant Sam and Marcus were.

"I am so fucked."

He closed his eyes and lost himself for an hour in the scroll of diagrams and equations running across his eyelids, taking guilty pleasure in the curvy figure that punctuated the shining lines of numbers.

* * *

><p>Baird shook the cobwebs from his head as he came out of his cat nap. He knew that, eventually, he was going to have to get a full nights sleep, but he didn't see it happening any time soon – not with the new crop of assholes that had popped up to ruin everything. Baird sighed and lifted himself from his bed when a throb of guilt pushed at his chest. He <em>had <em>said he'd look at Professor Fenix's journals to try and find an answer to their newest monster question. And he was curious – he never could control his compulsive need to know and understand everything around him.

He shut his eyes against the light-headed sensation that rolled over him when he levered himself into a sitting position. _This is going to get old fast_, he thought. Once the feeling had passed, he moved over to his (now) meticulously organized desk and ran his hand over the worn face of the journal he had procured from Dr. Fenix's desk. He thumbed back the corner, and got a glimpse of the neat handwriting and diagrams that surely filled each page. He almost dreaded the research and what he might find there. There were so many implications, so many conclusions that could be drawn, especially given Dr. Fenix's involvement in past problems, and the fact that he'd been here at the eye of the storm, literally, all these years.

Baird tapped out a rhythm on the journal cover and told himself to stop being such a pussy. He flipped open the cover and cast his formidable mind into the Professor's notes. He found himself admiring the elder Fenix as he delved further into the thorough writings. The man was smart – a genius, actually. What struck Baird the most, though, was his obvious desire to help fix what he'd broken. The Professor had told Baird that maybe he'd understand his actions, his mentality, when he read the journal, and Baird could see that the man nurtured a deep reservoir of guilt for the Hammer of Dawn decision, his inability to help Queen Myrrah and her ilk. Baird couldn't help feeling a little voyeuristic the more he read; the notes were a conglomeration of scientific and mathematical formulas and personal observations about himself and the world around him. Even Marcus' name was mentioned more than once.

Part of him wanted to find that there was no information about the little animals in the labs, but he came upon several pages that specifically targeted them. He groaned in disappointment that Professor Fenix had any knowledge of them and how unsurprised he was about it. He glanced at the coffered ceiling as if for an affirmation of will before returning to the journal.

The Professor called the beasts 'Hybrids'. They'd been developed for decades and were the finished product of advanced genetic modification. According to the partial print-out Dr. Fenix had attached, they were to be used, initially, as bio-weapons against the pushing tide of Locust. The scientists, following Fenix's intial idea, thought they'd be able to send the Hybrids out alongside Gears as additonal front line soldiers. Their synthetically-hardened skin worked like the Gears' armor plating to deflect bullet damage, up to a certain threshold. However, they'd proven to be smart enough to question their directives and wouldn't cooperate. It seemed that the Hybrids didn't act as mindless animals, and their sense of self-preservation rivaled those of the humans they were being bred to protect.

After they'd been crossed off the list of 'useful weapons', the scientists decided to use them as guinea pigs for other experiments. Dr. Fenix wanted to use a few of them to try and find a way to further along his research to help Myrrah, but since he couldn't reveal his purpose (to help the Locust), his request had been denied and his contact with the animals was limited. From what Dr. Fenix could glean from file searches and eavesdropping, further modifications had been made to the Hybrids to test the boundaries of their capabilities, and how many breakthroughs they could usher in. The experiments had gone awry soon after implementation; the intelligence the Hybrids displayed had grown ten-fold, and they'd begun to resist their treatment. On one of his 'visits', Fenix noted that the animals had created a hierarchy amongst themselves and were showing obvious signs of aggression. The project leaders had marked them for destruction when they noticed the dwindling number of subjects. The dominant male and female had begun to kill off the weaker animals, and had even managed to fatally wound one of the lab technicians. Shortly thereafter, the lab had been sealed and all the scientists were reassigned to different projects.

Baird shut the journal and sat back in his chair. His head swam with the wealth of information, and he found himself compartmentalizing everything into mental file folders so the he could coherently relay the information to Dr. Hayman. There was also a tickle in the back of his head concerning how he was going to talk to Marcus about his father's involvement, however small it was, with these new terrors. He was uncomfortable with the sinking feeling in his stomach – outside of the randomness that was his friendship with Cole, he was pretty much brand-new and untested in the role of 'friend'. He didn't want to tell Marcus _anything_ about his father's role. He didn't want the older man to be _upset._ Baird knew that Adam Fenix was something that Marcus had no shield against, and the son in him didn't want more bad news about his father. Baird didn't want to be the one to twist that particular knife, and made up his mind that he'd do what he could to soften the blow.

He glanced around to his wall-mounted clock and saw how many hours he'd lost. There was so much left to do today, and he couldn't help but feel uneasy about it all. As he made his way out of his room and towards the elevators, he hoped that he'd be able to talk with Hayman and get gone. He still had to talk to Sam and he had _no idea_ what to say to her or what would happen. He leaned back against the bronze railing and sighed as the doors slid shut in front of him. It was going to be a very long evening.

* * *

><p>Hayman stepped back from the corpse and made to wipe her nose, but thought better of it. Her expression was one of puzzlement, and her sallow cheeks were flushed with the exertion of a vigorous autopsy. She placed her hands on her hips, the slick gore on her elbow gloves staining her coat instantly.<p>

"What?" Marcus asked, aware that she had growled at him to 'shut up' not five minutes ago.

"I was hoping these creatures were like the Sires."

"Tank-bred?"

"Asexual." She jammed a finger unceremoniously between its legs. "I'm no vet, but I know immature sex organs when I see them. These things have been busy."

Marcus recoiled internally, but managed to keep the disgust from his face. The thought of these things spawning was about as appealing as the Locust system of 'reproduction'. Hayman jiggled the flacid appendage thoughtfully, completely unperturbed. Squeezing and poking people's most intimate places while they discharged bodily fluids on you _had been _her career choice; Marcus was glad she dove into her work with dogged perseverance, but her lack of decorum still managed to catch him off-guard. "So these things can spawn?"

"Yes, dollars to donuts these creatures procreate. It isn't a question."

He ignored her correction in favor of fantasizing about donuts. Maybe he should idly suggest to Dizzy the possibility of rigging a fryer—it had literally been decades since he had allowed himself to indulge in something as frivolous as a donut.

"Sergeant?"

Marcus jerked from his musings. A look of irritation fluttered across her features, but he steadfastly ignored it. He was _not _going to give her the opportunity for a snide remark about his damaged psyche or some shit. He put up with enough silent analysis from Anya.

"Here, Fenix, hold this," she said, shoving one of the creatures legs in his hands. He extended it out to its full length, and studied the long, glistening claws on his end while Hayman and Private Voss proceeded to neuter the creature and place its entire reproductive tract (near as he could tell) into neat little glass receptacles.

Marcus averted his eyes from the disembowelment and rapped his fingers against the creature's chest experimentally. Its hide wasn't pebbly like Locust skin, wasn't squishy like a human's. It was hard and smooth, with varying shades of an inky, matte black—their first indication that whatever this thing was, it was built for shadows and stealth attacks. It was hairless except for a mask of fine fur or feathers around the eyes and snout. What the rest of its head looked like, Marcus could only guess; Baird had pantomimed the carnage resulting from the gnasher spray.

He thumped its chest again, then grabbed the combat knife from his belt and probed the chest with the tip. The hide dented to the knife point, but held fast. He frowned, reversed his grip, and stabbed it squarely in the middle. The blade didn't cleave through the flesh as Marcus expected, but sank slowly up to the hilt, as if the hide was made of rubber. He was about to make this observation to the doctor when he heard her sharp inhalation and the distinct noise of her helpers' boots scuffling against the floor, giving her a wide berth.

"What in the fucking seven hells are you doing?" Hayman hissed from the other end of the table.

Marcus shrugged. "You heard Baird. He said these little shits were ammo sponges, practically armor-plated. I was testing a theory."

"You're testing a theory by destroying the evidence?" Her voice had reached the harpy pitch she was infamous for.

Marcus braced a hand on the creature and yanked his knife free. He inspected the blade, surprised to find it mostly clean, with only a few streaks of greenish-red ichor. He gestured at the corpse with his knife. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought you just told Voss and Kerrigan you were going to 'vivisect this motherfucker into its component parts'."

Hayman snarled at her words being thrown back in her face, and maneuvered around, attempting to grab the knife from him, straining across the table. Marcus fixed her with what Dom called his 'killer stare', the violent intention clear in his eyes as he angled the point of his knife deliberately toward her outstretched hand. "I wouldn't do that," he warned her, the hot anger of a moment before replaced with the calm chill of battle rage.

The elderly doctor sat into her hip, not breaking eye contact. "I'm not afraid of you, Sergeant, though fuck knows I should be. Your psychosis and emotional instability alone should have barred you from conscription."

He stared at her hollowly, hearing but not indulging the ravenous monster that was howling in his chest. Yes, he'd known since he was a child that he detached far too easily from people, from his emotions. It was second nature for him to slip away, to leave his shell on autopilot.

"How long have you been holding onto that one? Years?" When Hayman started to speak, he cut her off. "Gonna pin it on my distant daddy, or my poor dead mommy who never wanted me?"

She looked abashed for only a moment before sallying back. "Oh yes, you're a textbook case of child abuse, a stellar example of a war veteran suffering from PTSD. By all rights you should be institutionalized."

"You know what they called me in The Slab?" He smiled, his upper lip curling into a snarl. "They called me the 'Mad Dog', because of the way I fought in the pits. It's the Mad Dog the COG saw when I enlisted, and it's the Mad Dog Hoffman wanted after Dom broke me out." Marcus leaned across the table into her space. "Your kind escalated this war, and _my _kind finished it."

He had won. He could see it in her face, as empathy and resentment warred for control. Her defiance had crumbled. Marcus had dredged up his own unmentionable past and equated her with his father. He had deliberately hit below the belt, had voiced the unspoken dialogue every person possesses, the truths too sharp and too enormous for most social conventions. It was not something she would soon forget.

"Clean this up," Hayman barked at her assistants, giving Marcus one last searing glare before busying herself with examining the monster's muzzle.

* * *

><p>"Baird!"<p>

The engineer stopped in his tracks when he was met with a chorus of his name. Hayman and Marcus were on him in a trice, each of them striving to be heard over the other.

"Get this, this _gorilla _out of here," Hayman was saying, making shooing motions at Marcus, as if he was some errant stray. "He's nothing but a pain in my ass, and it's only a matter of time before he crushes something important."

"She is fucking nuts," Marcus countered, pointing at the elderly doctor. "I'm leaving." He thumped two fingers on Baird's chest. "_You _are the liason between Delta and the Doc, ok?"

Baird's chest grew tight again; he could feel his pulse becoming erratic and thready as his blood pressure skyrocketed. He'd walked into an ongoing altercation-the tension was palpable in the small operating theater. His heart beat painfully three times under Marcus' fingers, and it took a prodigious amount of will not to wince.

"Yeah, ok," he murmured, striving to maintain his fraying calm. Baird could see Fenix's uncanny ability to sense the unseen switch on instantly in his blue eyes, his gaze moving fluidly from concentration to analysis.

"What happened?" Marcus asked, his voice rough and pitched lower.

Baird shrugged and shouldered past him, flashing Hayman a blinding smile. "I come bearing answers, though I think it's only given us more questions."

Hayman sighed irritably, and turned her back fully on Marcus. "Let's hear it."

"The bad news is I found reports on our new friends that detail their development in a lab here. They're called 'Hybrids'-real creative, these scientists. Failed bio-weapon, meant to be pitted against the Locust beasts, yada yada," Baird said, staring at the excavated husk on the table and half-expecting it to lunge at him. His heartbeat jumped a few more times, slowly returning to normal. "There was also mention of genetic modification, with special emphasis on their bullet-resistant hides, which matches up with my observations from the lab-their nest. Not technically bulletproof, mind, but they can take a hosing and keep on coming."

"So what's the good news?" Marcus asked from directly behind him.

Baird made a sweeping motion with his arms. "The good news? I selflessly read through countless pages of useless information for a few relevant paragraphs of data. You're welcome."

He indulged in his most cocky smile, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the slight shake in his hands. _This room is a goddamn pressure cooker. I've got to get out of here._

"That wasn't all," Marcus stated flatly.

"Trust me, it was. I practically went blind searching for the nuggets I found." He admired his tone: half patronizing, half cocky, and all Baird.

"Hmmm," Hayman mused aloud, wiping her gloved hands on the rag Private Kerrigan handed to her. "Confirmation of intel is always a good start. But we need more observation, more bodies." She looked pointedly at Baird. "We need an _intact _specimen. If we're to fully understand what we're dealing with, you can't obliterate half it's cranium."

"Did you hear that, Baird?" Marcus piped up. "The Doc wants us to capture one alive. Maybe if we ask it nicely, it'll bake a pie and come over for tea."

Baird swung around to stare at the older man, torn between surprise and amusement, his heart problem forgotten for the moment. Even for Marcus, this level of sarcasm smacked of compensation.

Hayman leveled a cool gaze at the Sergeant. "Would you kindly get the fuck out? And Baird, I'll need your assistance in skinning the Hybrid. I want a look at this musculature."

He was gobsmacked by the request. What about Sam? He was already _hours _late in meeting with her. And why the hell did she need him, specifically? "Wait, Fenix, can't you help?" Baird asked, desperate not to be cornered with Hayman when he had escaped so handily before.

Marcus rolled his eyes and waved his hands in the air. "Ohh no, the 'gorilla' can't be trusted with these delicate matters. I'm out. Come find me when you're done," Marcus said meaningfully. He ripped the scrubs off and stormed past the tatters through the double doors without a backward glance. Baird wanted to hate him, but his heart wasn't in it. He glanced back at Hayman who had not moved from her position, her posture mimicking his own, her jaw set in its familiar, stubborn line.

"I'm going to pass, actually," Baird told her.

"I'll make life hard if you don't assist me."

"As if you could make it worse than it's already been...oh yeah, my entire life?" When she wasn't moved by his sarcasm, he realized he needed to switch tacks if he wanted to escape this smelly, tiled room with minimal fallout. Maybe his connection to Cole would bear fruit.

"Is this _honestly _necessary? I have other duties to attend to, and isn't this why you have _them_?" he whined, pointing to Voss and Kerrigan, who suddenly appeared busy with the centrifuge and tissue samples.

Hayman glanced in the Privates' direction, and gave vent to a derisive laugh. "Those two louts? Uncoordinated at best. You're the best engineer and mechanic on this island. Delicate work calls for precise control and a delicate touch."

She had him, there. He couldn't disagree with her and risk diluting his potent ego. Not when he had an audience. He sighed and frowned deeply. "I doth protest. Mightily, in fact."

"Can it."

Hayman handed Baird a long, wicked skinning knife and directed him to pick up the Hybrid's foreleg. "Now, we're going to make proximal incisions starting from the wrist," Hayman began, indicating that Baird should mirror her knife placement. He took a deep breath, and silently promised Sam that he would reach her before midnight. If he didn't choke on his puke first.

* * *

><p>"I'll never get the stench out of these clothes," Baird grumbled forty minutes later as he scraped the carbolic soap under his fingernails for the third time. No matter how many times he washed up, he still stank of the Hybrid's organs. Thankfully his civvie clothes had been protected behind his apron, which had irregular splotches of sticky fluids in half a dozen shades. For all his jokes earlier about Reeves, his stomach was still rolling from the skinning. He doubted he would be able to eat for the next day or so. Baird gave his arms one last lather under the scalding hot water before toweling off and fleeing the medical wing.<p>

"Hayman is a fucking lunatic," Marcus said as soon as Baird found him stalking through the disheveled gardens on the eastern side of the building. "She thinks _I'm_ the loose cannon, but clearly no one's seen her hysteria when you disobey her."

"She's in her seventies, Marcus. She's compressed years of bitter resentment inside her withered soul until a diamond of spite popped out."

"If she wasn't the only doctor," Marcus growled, trailing off, his expression pinched but his eyes unreadable. "If she wasn't," he began again, either unwilling or incapable of expressing his true sentiments.

"But she is, so suck it up." Baird gestured towards the building. "Look, we're gossiping like a pair of hens, and if the world hadn't already endured armageddon, I'd say we were right on target; what in the hell did you two argue about?"

"Methodology. Procedures."

"Uh, care to elaborate?"

Marcus speared him with his gaze, his blue eyes snapping with intensity. "You first."

"Didn't we just talk about this?" Baird asked, his heart beginning to pound in his ears.

"You always were a bad liar, Baird."

He rebuffed Marcus' penetrating gaze with his usual sarcastic smile. "Another brilliant observation from our fearless leader." He didn't like Marcus' little off-the-cuff personal observations; they were unsettling and often true.

Marcus stepped into his space, his face stony, the mad dog gleaming in his eyes. "Cut the sarcastic bullshit. There's something you're not telling us. Not telling _me._"

"It's nothing, alright? I shared what I found about the experiments. It's like the Sires all over again."

Marcus planted a finger in his chest. "It's not _nothing._ I know you're holding out."

Baird knew Marcus was trying to intimidate him, and didn't rise to the bait. "Marcus, leave it alone."

"I don't like people keeping me in the dark."

He almost told Marcus, then, just out of vindictiveness. Baird didn't understand why, exactly, he was protecting Marcus from the truth. His modus operandi dictated the opposite. But the flash of apprehension that darted behind those icy blue eyes reined his tongue up short. He had seen Marcus lose his shit just once over his father, and he did not care to bear witness to it again. He despised the current circumstances that constantly dropped him unwillingly into someone's emotional orbit.

"Look, Marcus," he said, clapping a hand on the taller man's shoulder, knowing the contact would shock him, draw his full attention. "Please let me do this for you. Don't throw your divine weight around on this. Just let it go."

"Why?"

_Why are you doing this? Why does it matter to you? Why keep one sin a secret when the world was a tableau of Adam Fenix's confessions? Leave it to Marcus to load down a single word with so much goddamn intent._

"Because we're friends, alright? Leave it at that. Shit."

* * *

><p>It was only after he escaped Marcus and was jogging for his workshop that Baird realized he had nothing planned for his conversation with Sam. He racked his brain, but it may as well have been a sieve; he couldn't keep a single thought long enough to cultivate it. He groaned and scrubbed his face, raked his nails across his scalp. He liked Sam, really <em>liked <em>her. He didn't want to fuck this up. But his track record with social obstacles was not in his favor. He had often been accused of being frank-not given as a compliment, but he took it as such. He preferred honesty to lies, even if it meant he lived in a perpetual state of depressing reality. Which wasn't to say that _he _didn't keep secrets...

_But this is Sam. I don't want to lash her with brutal honesty. Do I?_

He cared enough about her to have that dull urge to spare her feelings-a privilege that had been exclusively Cole's until now.

_But don't I need to be honest, for both of us? Fuck. Fuuuuck._

The huge double doors that fronted warehouse control were ajar, and Baird unconsciously slowed to a walk as he approached them. He peered through the crack. The overhead lamps were on, but Sam wasn't in the main bay. No one was. He slipped inside and quietly sauntered around the benches and projects in various states of completion, trailing his fingers across metallic curves and tools, focusing on steadying his heart and finding a handful of words that wouldn't sodomize..._whatever _he and Sam had between them. He shrugged out of his armor and stacked it carefully next to the stairs. He gripped the handrail that descended down to the storage room and computer banks that composed his impromptu office, sensing that Sam was below, waiting. He thought of Sam's hot, aching mouth when she had kissed him, the lust that arose and left an impression on his body. He mustered the confidence of those moments and pushed his feet forward, down the steps.

He found her in the chair at his desk, facing away, one elbow propped up, head in her hand. She was still clad in the tank and cargos he had seen her in earlier in the day. He dug his earpiece out and placed it carefully on the nearby counter.

"Samantha," he whispered, his voice strident in the deep silence of the room. Was she asleep? The chair spun around suddenly, and she darted towards him. Startled, he took a quick step back and dropped into a crouch. He barely had time to straighten before her arms snaked around his waist, traveled up his back, pressing, searching. She crushed him against her body in a fierce hug, the warmth of her breasts and her hands blazing where their bodies touched, effectively purging the one sentence he had ready from his head.

He didn't know how long they embraced-the drone of the computer banks whirring in unison wrapped them in a trance. He didn't trust his internal clock, seeing as it had just exploded when she caressed his shoulder blades through his undershirt. _Oh shit, I've got it bad,_ he thought, marveling at his acceptance of her affections. Baird wouldn't admit to himself if 'it' was lust or genuine attraction, but he thought he knew the answer.

"I'm early," he teased softly in her ear, noting that Sam's hair smelled earthy, sweaty, and faintly of gasoline. _The perfect perfume._ He had miscalculated what Sam was to him, was losing control faster than he had anticipated. He was dumbfounded by his wanton disregard for the deep reservations he had about engaging the opposite sex.

Her breath ghosted over his neck before she pulled back slightly and pressed her lips to his. Baird felt his reservations slip further away as he kissed her back, even as his anxiety began to mount. He was _not _going to let his stupid problem distract him. _If I keep going with Sam like this, though, I may have a fucking heart attack._ He pushed the pleasure of her body's imprint away, and yanked his mind back onto the task at hand with some trepidation.

As if sensing his shift in thinking, Sam pulled away, eyes downcast to his navel. "I, I'm sorry. I know you weren't injured, but I haven't had the chance to make sure. For me." It seemed that Sam was also suffering from the effects of their heated magnetism. That made the impending conversation all the more difficult.

"I'm ok, Sam. Jace won a few scratches, but Hayman practically cauterized them, so he'll be fine." He took a quiet breath, and hooked a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I promised we would talk, right?"

She nodded, her expressive eyes dark, so dark. Baird didn't know what to make of it. "I'm not Dom, Samantha," he said firmly, plunging headfirst into the unspoken issue.

Her mouth twisted downward, her eyes flickering with a multitude of emotions as she stared helplessly at him. When she realized that he was waiting for her to respond, she licked her lips and visibly collected herself. Baird had the distinct impression that she felt guilty, though he couldn't imagine why.

"I know. I know that," she stammered. Her normal confidence had deserted her, while Baird felt strangely in control, given that he was hip-deep in uncharted territory that he had sworn to _never _explore.

"I'm not saying that to be an asshole or to be mean, but...I'm not him. I'm nothing like him, and if that's what you're looking for..." He trailed off, impaled by her naked look of sorrow, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, her lips compressed so tightly they were white. _Goddammit, you made her cry anyway. _He had never encountered _this_ Sam before; her personality ran the gamut from buoyant to pugnacious, but 'emotive' would have been the last adjective Baird would have used to describe her. He gritted his teeth and barreled on, not knowing what else to do.

"I won't play second fiddle, here. I don't want to be a place filler until someone you like more comes around. And if that's what I am, if I'm just his replacement, then I don't want to do this."

_Well, that was...easy. _Strange that for someone who lived in his head, he had managed to state both his reservations and intentions so eloquently. He had given her more than enough kindle to burn him, if she chose. The realization fanned his blossoming anxiety, though he did feel a measure of relief that he had finally voiced his concern.

"I-I wanted Dom to notice me. I was lonely. But the more I got to know him, the more I realized that he was broken, Damon." She seemed to be talking to herself, eyes averted to one side of his face. "He was broken and empty, and he didn't want me. It took me some time to realize that I _wasn't _broken and empty, that I didn't want him either." Her voice was small, laced with guilt, and Baird, in a sudden flash, intuited the source of her burden. He had liked Dom well enough to cooperate with him in Delta, but he couldn't fathom the undying loyalty that he seemed to inspire. He had been such a goody-two-shoes. _S'pose that's why he and Marcus were BFF. _

"Samantha, you can't feel guilty about your-epiphany, or whatever-just because he's dead now." Deja vu punched Baird hard in the gut as he recalled telling Marcus something similar a few days after the battle over the Maelstrom. "I understand feeling conflicted, but you can't share in the guilt. He made the decision to-" Baird stopped himself from saying 'to blow himself up' and amended with, "to sacrifice himself. Let it go."

Sam shook her head sharply and gripped his upper arms, her eyes fervent. "But I _did_ let it go."

"It doesn't seem that way."

Her nails dug into his flesh. "I forgot about him once I noticed _you_," she said hotly, her expression a strange mixture of defiance and worry. "When we parted ways, I was going to the docks and you were going on to the Maelstrom, you told me to 'take care'."

Oh, he remembered. He could explain it away, if he wanted, citing his palpable terror at the time as the likely culprit for his uncharacteristic sentimental declarations, but that would be doing Sam a disservice, biting his nose off to spite his face. How many times had he unintentionally fucked himself over because his first reaction was to deflect?

He draped his arms over her shoulders, noting that while her bare shoulders were hot, they were dimpled with goose-bumps. "Don't mistake my reservations for rejection, Samantha. I'm not broken like Dom, but I'm pretty screwed-up. I'm cautious." Their faces were inches away again. "But I want you. I want whatever this is between us. You're pretty smart for an idiot savant," he said, tapping her temple.

"What about the rest of me?" Sam fished, locking her wrists behind his neck.

Baird couldn't help the flush that rose in his cheeks. "Well, I wouldn't kick you out of bed, if that's what you're asking."

She smiled for the first time since he found her, and tilted her head to the side. "Is that a declaration of affection? Not the worst I've heard."

He scowled and pulled her hips forward against his own, slightly punch-drunk from the rush of blood to his extremities. "I bare my soul and you insult me? I'm wounded, Sam. You're a cold bitch."

Sam smirked and rolled her hard, lithe body against him. "If that was you baring your soul, I don't know if I could handle any more confessions."

Her mouth was on his neck again, and it was so satisfying, but her ardency had only revived his insecurities. As much as he wanted to follow her lead-caution to the winds, etc-he was having trouble ignoring the pressure expanding in his chest. He gently disengaged her, afraid of her reaction.

"What now?" she asked, bewildered.

"Samantha, I want you, but your...passion is kind-of overwhelming. You have to take it slow with me. I'm rusty."

She worried her lower lip. It was impossible to miss the disappointment in the corners of her mouth. Baird thought that surely, now, she would dismiss him out-of-hand, but she stayed within his personal space, the delicate arches of her brows drawn together as she studied him, deep in thought. "I'm not accustomed to waiting," she said finally, "but I understand."

"Well, it's a relief to-" he started to say, but she cut him off again with a deep kiss. She propelled him backwards, his ass slamming into the low counter as her weight pressed him backwards.

"Stop that," he ordered sternly, allowing himself to enjoy the contact.

"You _like _it," Sam purred, slowly straddling his right leg and settling her weight on it. "Besides, you said to take it slow. And I'm pretty sure making out is included on that list."

"Mm hmm," he agreed, sighing through his nose as he captured her mouth playfully, and sent his hands roving across her hips before dipping lower to cup her rear. She began to gyrate her hips, grinding her crotch slowly up and down his thigh. His eyes rolled back and he couldn't help the groan that escaped him. He nipped her lower lip in warning, simultaneously giddy and jittery about when she'd toe the line again.

Her hands settled on the buckle of his tool belt, and the hooded look she gave him was positively predatory, driven by pure sexual tension. "Sure you want to wait?"

Suddenly his earpiece blared to life, startling him so badly that he nearly dumped Sam on the floor. His heart hammered in his chest, but thankfully, there was no pain.

"All call signs report in! Baird! Byrne! Cole! Unidentified hostiles closing in on the hub—respond. There's been an attack."

Sam stepped back from Damon as he reached out to grab his still-squawking ear piece. Her heart pounded and the head rush she'd gotten from his touch hadn't abated. She took in a deep, calming breath and tried to reign in her nervous energy.

"What do you mean '_attacked_'?" he asked sharply. Sam perked up at the word, his conversation suddenly becoming important to her.

Whoever was on the other end of his comm, most likely Anya, wasn't telling him anything he wanted to hear. His face screwed up in a mix of disbelief and anger, and Sam felt her stomach tighten up with dread.

"Fine. _Yes, Anya_, I said fine," he snapped. Sam watched as he threw his hands up in annoyance.

"Sam is here with me in the workshop. No, I don't know why you can't raise her on her comm. You can ask her when we get there." Damon abruptly pulled his finger from his earpiece, closing the line of communication.

"Sooo, what's going on?" Sam asked. Hearing his one-sided exchange hadn't given her any details about what kind of shitstorm he'd just been told about.

"Marcus is calling us back to the hotel. Sounds like something went down and some Gears got hurt." He reached around to his holstered boltok and checked his rounds. "Let's hope it's nothing, because I'm not exactly carrying a full arsenal."

"Neither am I," Sam said regretfully, fingering her snub pistol.

"We'll make do if we need to. Let's get going," Damon said, pressing a brief touch onto her bicep before turning on his heel and striding out to one of the modified vehicles.

* * *

><p>Damon took a longer route around, bypassing the main hub so they could avoid the long walk from there to the hotel. It had been eerily quiet the whole ride; if there were any security patrols out, neither of them noticed.<p>

"I guess Marcus really is calling all cars," Sam murmured as she craned her neck around, trying to find any sign of life.

Damon only grunted at her as he slowed to a stop. Sam noticed a peculiar look on his face as he absently rubbed at his chest.

"End of the line," he said. He'd gotten them as close as possible – they'd need to make the rest of way on foot. "We're still about half a klick from the hotel. Why don't we take it at a bit of a jog?"

"Yeah. What do you think is –" Sam was interrupted when something smashed into the passenger side window, leaving spidery cracks that spread out from the point of impact. "What the fuck was that?"

"Trouble," Damon responded, peering around her to try and see if anything else was coming towards them. "Time to go. Get out on my side."

Damon opened his door and quickly slid from the pack horse. He pulled his boltok free of its holster and provided cover as Sam maneuvered over the stick shift and out the door. He spun to face the back side of the vehicle when he heard a familiar high pitched squeal.

"Oh, shit, not these assholes again." He heard Sam checking her weapon behind him and turned back to her. "We've got to move. _Now_."

Sam only nodded and lifted her pistol. She had a million questions she wanted to ask him, but now was neither the time nor the place. She could wait until they were safely back with the other Gears before she gave him the third degree.

"We're going to have to make a run for it, Sam," Damon stated quietly. "Our pistols aren't going to do a bit of good against these little fuckers."

"I'm ready when you are, then." Her eyes roved around their surroundings, trying to catch a glimpse of what had crashed into the packhorse. A chorus of keens rent the air, startling her. The piercing sound stabbed at her ear drums and made the hair on her arms stand on end.

"Shit. Run!" Damon called, pushing her ahead of him.

Together they scrambled through the bramble of what used to be perfectly planted tropical flowers and ferns. The plants, left untended, had grown outstretched arms that smacked against their faces as they pelted towards safety. Sam could hear the beasts giving chase – could hear them crying out to each other as they tore unseen through the brush.

Sam desperately pulled more air into her lungs as she lengthened her stride. Her muscles burned from the exertion, and she vowed to herself that she wouldn't slack off on her cardio workouts anymore. She could still hear the slapping of the animals feet behind them, punctuated by Damon's heavy breathing. She imagined the little monsters gaining on them and nipping at their ankles, toppling them to the ground to be devoured, but the bites never came.

"Go, Sam, go!" Damon gasped out from behind her.

Sam could see the hotel now, could see when all the noise they were making attracted the attention of the other Gears. Around twenty or so soldiers were standing guard at the huge double doors – each one armed to the teeth.

"Behind us!" Sam yelled as she and Damon put on their last burst of speed and sprinted towards the group. The monstrosities behind them had no qualms about leaving the cover of the flora and raced after the two in a fluid pack.

Sam heard the guards call alarms to each other and turn their lancers towards the invaders. Damon pulled Sam down and to the side as they opened fire, pressing her against one of the ornate walls until the bullets stopped flying.

"You two okay?" One of the Gears came towards them as they pulled away from their stone shelter. His lancer was pointed at a low angle, the tip a dull red and still at the ready in case a new flood of enemies tried their luck.

"We're fine," Sam said, dusting herself off. "Thanks for the save."

The other Gear nodded in acknowledgment and led them back to the group. Damon noticed the other soldiers shifting uneasily and talking quietly to each other. The ones that hadn't donned their helmets had clear looks of disquiet on their faces. Their body language screamed out their agitation.

"I think Fenix was looking for you two. He's with Lieutenant Stroud in the lobby."

"We'll head that way in a minute," Baird stated as he took in area. "Has this been happening all night?"

"Nah. Your group of nasties is the first one we've seen."

"So, why the mass recall?" Baird asked. "Well, never mind, we'll get a sit-rep from Marcus. Your guys ok?"

The other Gear turned and looked at his large group, taking in their behavior.

"They're fine. A little anxious, but solid."

Baird nodded and made his way around the other man, slapping his shoulder once in parting. He and Sam made their way through the heavy double doors and toward the lobby. Baird spotted the rest of Delta squeezed in around a waist high table, poring over something he couldn't see. Cole looked up and saw the two of them first.

"The gang's all here," he said, nodding towards the approaching pair.

Marcus turned and gave them a quick once-over, searching for injuries.

"Nice of you to show up," he said in his dry-wit way.

"Well, we _were_ being assaulted by monsters. I'm sure you can understand the delay," Baird said, playing along. "I'm guessing they have something to do with you pulling everyone back to home base?"

"A couple of Indies got hurt earlier tonight. The injuries looked similar to what we saw on Reeves," Marcus answered. He pressed his hands into the high table and leaned his weight on them with a sigh. It struck Baird just then how tired the older man looked. Even the ever-present do-rag couldn't hide the gray that was warring for dominance in his dark hair. Baird winced in sympathy.

"How'd Trescu take that?" he asked.

"He wasn't happy," Marcus stated. Baird wasn't sure if Marcus was downplaying whatever happened with Trescu or not. The man had a way of encapsulating a whole situation in just a few words and leaving the details up to interpretation. It drove Baird _crazy_.

"Okay," Baird said slowly. "So, why were we called back?"

"I need to know what you know about these things," Marcus said "I don't think what happened earlier was an isolated event. I'm even more convinced of that now, given your dramatic entrance."

"You already know what I know." Baird shrugged. The corner of Marcus' mouth twitched, and he gave the engineer a hard stare. Baird was reminded of their earlier conversation when he'd told Marcus to back off and let him handle things. An awkward silence fell over the group as the two men watched each other. Marcus finally looked away with a heaving sigh.

"Everyone, get suited up. We're all going to be patrolling the perimeter tonight and probably for the next few days. Everything else is on hold."

* * *

><p>Jace shivered as a chill wind whipped around his group. The nights and early mornings were beginning to get cooler as the year went on. He hated being cold. It always made him feel like he was only inches from being dead. He preferred to be hot. At least then, he could see that he was alive in the way that his blood rose to the surface and gave his skin a reddish cast. His depressing reverie was interrupted when Carmine heaved a sigh.<p>

"What's up, man?" Jace asked, turning halfway to glance at his friend.

"This is such bullshit. I feel like we've been tricked," Carmine said, shaking his head.

"Tell me about it," Jace muttered. "It's like a nightmare. The last sixteen years have been like a nightmare we can't wake up from."

Carmine's only answer was another deep sigh. Jace wanted to perk up – get out of his melancholy mood, but Carmine wasn't the only one who felt like they were the unwilling participants in a mean-spirited joke. Every Gear was on patrol tonight; they'd joined up into larger squads of seven, but none strayed far from the hotel. He could see the vague shapes of fellow Gears highlighted by their blue indicator lights as they moved along overlapping routes. They'd been walking the grounds going on half an hour now, without any sign of their new enemies. The group moved in a modified phalanx with Marcus leading as point man, and the others filing behind him two by two.

"We're going to have to name them." Jace heard Cole comment to Baird.

"You got something in mind?"

"Not really. I guess we can't just call them 'assholes' and be done with it."

"If only we could. Imagine _that_ being in the history books. 'And then the fearless Gears defeated the Assholes and everyone was happy.'." Baird answered wistfully. "But Professor Fenix's journals called them Hybrids."

Jace chuffed a quiet laugh. He figured assholes _would_ be a fitting name for them. That or 'Goddamned Motherfuckers', but that might be too much of a mouthful. A loud boom cut through the silence and startled the group. Jace saw the other teams shoulder their rifles, trying to find the point of origin.

Another boom and a scream. Then silence.

"Son of a bitch, Carter! What the fuck?" An unidentified Gear let loose on the private who'd gotten trigger happy. "Why the Goddamn fuck are you shooting at the local wildlife?"

"I saw something! It was in the bushes. I swear to God, Sarge," Carter yelled out. He hadn't taken his eyes off the brush when his commanding officer addressed him. Jace was reminded of a hunting dog pointing at its prey.

Sargent Lowery took in a deep breath, ready to blast Carter with a reprimand, but a keening howl sounded behind him.

"Shit."

"I _told_ you," Carter muttered, reestablishing his grip on his rifle.

Another howl from the east, closer this time.

The Gears all shifted their postures, waiting for and expecting the worst. Jace took comfort in the feeling of his lancer nestled against his shoulder. He knew it's weight, how hard it kicked and how to compensate for it, how much pressure to put on the trigger. He could protect himself. He could protect his family.

"Maybe they're just fucking with us," Lowery whispered and lowered his rifle marginally. It seemed to happen in slow motion. As soon as the Sargent's chest was exposed a black shape hurtled through the air at him. Time stretched like taffy as Jace watched the animal strike. The force of the hit took him to the ground and sent up a plume of dust. The monster took two powerful swipes at him and then was gone. Lowery let out a gurgling scream and frantically pressed his hands to his throat. Every Gear's gaze was riveted on him. Jace released a breath he hadn't realized that he'd been holding. There was no movement from the group until Lowery moaned again from the ground. Reality reasserted itself as Baird pushed forward and knelt over Lowery.

"Shit, who's got a first aid kit?" Baird asked, placing his hands over the Sargent's. Only then did Jace notice the dark blood seeping between his fingers. Another Gear rushed forward with a wad of gauze, but Lowery's eyes were already rolling backwards and his hands had slipped from underneath Baird's.

When Baird lifted his hands to press the gauze to the wound a weak spray of blood from the severed carotid artery spurted onto his gauntlet and Lowery stopped breathing. Baird's shoulders slumped and he tiredly swiped a hand over his face, leaving a streak of blood along one cheekbone.

"We can't leave him here," he said quietly.

Marcus nodded solemnly and called to Carter and few of his squad mates, telling them to get their fallen brother and take him home. As the group crowded to pick him up they heard faint gun fire from one of the outer squads. Marcus shook his head and depressed his comm unit.

"Marcus to all call signs. Pull back to the hotel. Everyone _pull back_." The units nearest him were already on the move. They knew that as long as they stayed in the darkness and the trees, the animals would have the upper hand.

The Gears moved quickly back to the hotel, taking in the area as best they could in the absence of light. Shooting could be heard from all directions as they made their way back. The hotel gleamed in the dark like a beacon of safety, and the Gears rushed towards it. At least here, they'd see the enemy coming.

"Take Lowery inside. Cover him up and get your asses back out here," Marcus growled out.

More Gears poured in from the tree line, bloodied and breathless. Many helped along limping comrades who'd been wounded in the ambush attacks. Jace heard Marcus curse under his breath again.

"Anyone who can't fight needs to be moved inside. Hurry up," he yelled out. "Everyone else, take up a post."

Jace tuned out his fellow soldiers and listened for the animals that were assaulting them. The night swelled with their keening cries, and he noticed that a deep bass of low growls had been added to the noise. He was overcome with an intense feeling of deja vu and sighed. _This shit never ends. _

He spotted a lone Gear pelting towards them at a limping sprint and hefted his lancer to his shoulder when the Gear cried for help. As Jace watched, it seemed that the shadows solidified behind the soldier and spat out a swarm of animals that overtook the other man in seconds. It only took a moment for Jace and the other Gears to open fire; they knew there was no chance the soldier had survived the deluge.

"Look!" Carmine yelled in his ear, pointing out in front of them. To Jace is seemed that the ground was moving. It was like watching a carpet of ants rush forward from their bed. The Hybrids swarmed towards them, shrieking at them in fury.

"Take 'em out!"

Jace's ears rang from the pounding percussion of rifle blasts. He felt like he might go deaf at any moment between the booms of their guns and the ongoing screaming from both sides. The first wave of the wretch-sized hybrids fell immediately to the barrage of bullets; their hurried, direct approach proved to be their undoing. Jace hoped that they'd all keep running in straight line and make easy targets of themselves, but the second wave seemed to smarten up. They curbed their aggressive run and retreated to the treeline and the darkness.

Jace's senses had stretched almost to the point of pain. He could smell the gun powder and the acrid scent of hot metal from the spent cartridges. He felt a single bead of sweat travel down his back and into the waist band of his cargo pants, and the smell of spilled blood left a metallic taste in his mouth. His heartbeat sounded like a drum in his ears as he waited. Every soldier knew that tonight's assault hadn't ended.

"Marcus, don't we still have mortars?" Baird asked in a low voice.

"In the armory. Ideas?"

"We can't stay out here all night fighting these things. They take bullets like sponges take water – either we run out of ammo or fall over from exhaustion. We need a more powerful weapon," Baird said.

"How fast can you get one set up?"

"Ten minutes? I'd rather take it to one of the upper floors for a bird's eye view."

"Do it."

Baird slapped Cole on the shoulder and had him follow along through the double doors.

"Ten minutes to mortar strikes, Gears. Hang in there." Marcus' growling voice came over the comms.

Jace sighed in relief; _now_ they'd do some real damage.

* * *

><p>"Damn, I'd forgotten how <em>heavy<em> these things were." Baird groaned out as he and Cole carried the heavy weapon towards the elevators.

"It's good for us, baby! Keeps us strong," Cole laughed out as he adjusted his grip on his end of the mortar.

Baird cocked an incredulous eyebrow at his friend and gratefully lowered his end to the floor when they reached the elevator bank. He punched the call button and leaned against the wall to wait.

Both men perked up when the stained glass windows rattled out a drumbeat from the fire fight that had apparently just reignited. They could hear familiar voices calling out locations and warnings that they were being flanked.

"Shit, hurry _up_, elevator," Baird said impatiently, shifting from foot to foot.

He watched the ornate floor indicator moved slowly down to one, mocking him with its unhurried pace. The doors finally opened with a cheerful ding and allowed the two men entry. The moment felt distinctly surreal to Baird as they sat the deadly weapon down between them. The tinny elevator music was accented by the ongoing and repetitive canned announcements that no one had gotten around to disabling. Baird had put a bullet through one of the speakers, but all of the others worked just fine.

"Remind me to turn this shit off permanently when this is over," Baird muttered between clenched teeth.

Cole laughed lightly at Baird's annoyance and stared intently at the slowly climbing numbers.

"Going up three stories has never taken so long," he stated. "Baird, find a way to put jet engines of the elevators, okay? This is _painful_."

The duo hefted the mortar just as another happy ding signaled the opening of the doors. Baird and Cole rushed forward as fast as they could and positioned themselves on a rounded balcony that jutted directly above the embattled Gears.

"Let's show these bitches how we deal with party crashers," Cole said with a grim smile as he loaded the mortar.

"We lead a charmed life, Gus," Baird answered as he opened a line on his comm. "Mortars away."

Baird adjusted the weapons aim and let loose a deadly fire storm. The signature high pitched whistle announced the mortars arrival right before the night sky lit up and the heavy artillery rained down upon the Hybrids. The two men wasted no time in reloading and sending another wave of aerial death. The wide spread of the mortar fire easily covered all three battle fronts, and left anything unlucky enough to be caught in its radius scorched or in pieces.

Baird and Cole watched as the men below recoiled from the concussive blast and the searing light. It was dangerous to shell so close to their stronghold, but these little fuckers had brought the battle to their doorstep. The trees and flowers that immediately surrounded the hotel were annihilated in mere moments – along with any Hybrids that had taken refuge in their shadows.

The Gears fell into a heavy silence as their senses righted themselves – the mortars weren't aimed at them, but the non-fatal effects of the weapon still wreaked havoc on their vision and hearing. A cheer went up from those first able to blink the stars out of their eyes, and saw the few remaining Hybrids beating a hasty retreat.

Baird and Cole watched the action from a few stories up, eyeing the moving shadows until they'd gone beyond their field of vision.

"Why do I feel like we didn't really win?" Cole asked.

"Oh, I thought it was just me," Baird said as he pushed back from the railing. "This feels just like when we turned Jacinto into an underwater attraction. One brief, shining moment of victory followed by a solid kick to the balls."

"Yeah, the constant ball kicking is getting really old," came Cole's muffled reply as he ran both of his huge hands over his face. "C'mon, man. Marcus will want to have a talk about all of this."

* * *

><p>Sam eyed the elevators anxiously, waiting for Baird and Cole to return. She knew they were fine, but she wanted to see them with her own eyes. Her heart still pounded in her chest from the free flowing adrenalin and she could acutely smell the sweat and grime that covered everyone. The tension in the room set her teeth on edge and made her want to lash out.<p>

Her muscles ached from being so tense for so long, but it was a good ache. Part of her had missed this, missed the fighting. Right now, with her fingertips feeling scraped from clutching the pebbled grip on her lancer and her heated blood racing just below the surface of her skin, she felt accomplished and exhilarated. She knew that she and her comrades had just successfully defended their home and their friends and it left her with a swell of grim happiness in the pit of her stomach.

She pushed her way over to Marcus who was already talking with the rest of Delta, minus one engineer and one Thrashball star. Sam glanced impatiently at the elevators again and willed the two men to show up _now_.

"Anya," Marcus' voice interrupted her intense watch on the lifts. "I need you to get a tally on injuries. Who's dead, who's hurt. This isn't over and we need to know how many Gears we actually have left."

Anya nodded her consent and her eyes took on a far-away look as she worked out the most efficient way to approach the command. She didn't give any outward indication that Marcus' borderline callousness disturbed her. Although, Sam couldn't really say that it bothered _her_, either. She knew that in order to be the most effective, you had to divorce yourself from the emotional part of war, otherwise you'd lose your shit and freeze – which usually resulted in you or your buddy taking a bullet in the face.

"Sam, I need you to – where are Baird and Cole?" Marcus asked, suddenly noticing that the duo hadn't shown up yet.

A light bell announced the elevators arrival, as if in answer to his question. The men stepped out and made a beeline for the group.

"Sorry, these lifts move slower than my dead grandmother," Baird said regretfully. "So, what's the what, fearless leader?"

He spared Sam a glance and looked her over for injuries before returning his attention to Marcus.

"Well, since you're here..." Marcus trailed off. "Did you notice anything about these things worth telling?"

Baird had a knack for being freakishly observant of enemies on the battle field. The knowledge he'd gleaned from watching the Locust and the Lambent had saved their collective asses more than once; he was usually, and annoyingly, right.

"You mean besides them doing exactly what they were created to do?" Baird shrugged. "They attacked us methodically – quick, stealthy hits – and they were better organized than I anticipated. My biggest concern is that it seemed like they had a plan in place before they ever arrived, and were able to adjust it on the fly. That implies not just intelligence, but adaptability. I wonder how they communicate with each other?"

"Suggestions?" Marcus queried.

"Flame-throwers?" Baird shook his head and threw up his hands. "I don't know. These things are unlike anything we've ever encountered and we just don't know enough about them to make any sort of educated decision on how to handle them."

"So give me an educated _guess_."

Sam noticed Baird's hand twitch upwards in an aborted movement and saw that same pinched expression she'd noted earlier. He blew out a blustery breath and rocked back on his heels before speaking again. She looked over to Marcus as he was giving the blonde an uncomfortably intense, searching stare; Sam figured he'd seen the same actions she had.

"Look, as far as I can tell, these things like the darkness – they like ambush attacks. Maybe we need to make sure that everyone is back to the hotel before nightfall? Patrols need to stay close by in case they try our defenses again. Also, the mortars worked pretty well – we might try setting our heavy weapons in strategic locations, get a few mounted turrets around the area."

Marcus nodded and turned his gaze to Sam.

"Sam, get with Anya and help her work out how to best spread our soldiers. Pull some intel from Hayman as well, she'll tell you who's able to work and who isn't. Baird, Cole, round up a few Gears and get to work on mounting our defenses." Marcus sighed quietly and glanced at his plain wristwatch. "Everybody try to catch a few hours of sleep. I know you're tired, but we can't afford to wait very long."

He dismissed them with a nod and directed Anya to follow him with quick stroke on her lower back, leaving Sam, Baird and Cole at the table.

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm beat. I'm gonna take Marcus up on those few hours of sleep," Cole said with a massive stretch and a yawn. "Y'all should, too."

"I _am_ pretty bushed..." Sam said, eyeing Baird. He looked like _hell_.

The blonde ran a dirty hand over his face before looking up at them.

"I'm going to run down and see if Dizzy has any leftovers. I haven't eaten all day and I think I might die."

"Baby, you gotta start taking better care of yourself. Just because Boomer Lady isn't here to nag you to death doesn't mean you can start slacking," Cole admonished, slapping him on the back.

Baird only rolled his eyes and stepped away from them.

"I'll see you in the morning. I hope you have dreams about how much fun we're going to have when the sun comes up," Baird retorted over his shoulder as he walked towards the mess hall.

* * *

><p>Baird entered the darkened mess quietly, hoping he'd have the place to himself. He hadn't met with anyone on the way down, so he was eighty-seven percent sure that he was alone for now. He tip-toed his way to the kitchen area and opened the double-wide refrigerator. The pale yellow light highlighted the dark circles under his eyes and the dried blood on his face that was streaked through with sweat trails.<p>

He reached out to grab the wrapped-up food that he'd spotted, but recoiled when he noticed how dirty his hands were. He propped the refrigerator open with a nearby stool and turned on the scalding hot water in the sink. The dish washing solution he used in lieu of regular soap left his skin dry and tight, but at least now his food wouldn't taste like dirt and metal.

Baird shifted the food around and served himself portions of what was left from today's dinner, carefully wrapping each dish back up and returning it to where he found it. He peered in further and saw another prize: beer. He hadn't had the pleasure of an ice cold beer in days and his mouth watered at the thought. He pulled two long-necks from the back and made his way back out to the tables.

He sat his meal and drinks down, and shimmied his way out of his chest plates; it was impossible to get comfortable with those things on. He allowed himself a long stretch, arching his back over the top of the chair until he could see the baseboards on the opposite wall, relishing the quick pops his spine made. He vented a deep breath as he returned to a neutral position.

Baird snapped the top off of his first beer using the edge of the table and tipped the brown bottle to his dry lips. He finished the drink off in six deep pulls and groaned in pleasure as the cold liquid rushed through him. He knew that he really shouldn't be drinking since his on- again-off-again relationship with anxiety-induced heart conditions was back in play, but he couldn't resist. Either the drink would allow him to relax or it'd send him into orbit; he figured he had a fifty/fifty chance of being able to sleep tonight – aided by the eight percent alcohol content of the stout beer.

He sat the empty bottle down and tore into his cold but satisfying meal. He let his mind wander, and found himself replaying the days events in his mind's eye like a movie. He felt his pulse start to rise as the remembered voices and actions swirled around inside his head like crashing waves over a lone rock.

_No, no, no. Stop it right this moment. _He pushed back from the table and took in a deep, measured breath. He felt a chill run down his spine and his skin slicked over in a cold sweat. Baird swallowed hard as his stomach knotted up and threatened to expel everything he'd just eaten.

_Stop it, stop it._

Baird made to stand up, but quickly returned to to his seat when a wave of dizziness overtook him. He pressed his shaking, clammy hands to his forehead and loosed a pitiable groan. He breath was coming in short, heaving bursts and he felt like an ever-tightening vise was around his chest, strangling him. He pushed himself to his feet again and ignored the swaying tilt he experienced. He took one step towards the door and stopped. He couldn't go outside – someone might see him. He stepped back to the table with a soft whimper and crashed back into his seat.

His heart rate had reached a frightening pace, and he swore he could hear the swish of blood in his ears. He imagined himself having a heart attack and dying alone on the cold floor of the mess hall, and felt his pulse go up another notch. He let out another whimpering cry and pressed his hands to his spasming chest.

_Stop. You're fine. You're fine. Breathe._

He tried to control his rapid breathing, but the tightness in his chest on each inhalation only panicked him more. He slid from the chair to his knees and crawled under the table. He pulled his legs in and curled himself into a shaking ball. He started haltingly humming an old song that he half remembered someone singing to him a long time ago. It was short and repetitive, and he didn't remember all of the words, but he did remember that, at the moment, he was the safest he'd ever felt.

Baird began to sing in an almost inaudible voice broken by heaving breaths, and rocked himself back and forth. He could feel his heart slowing down and the pressure band was starting to release. He lost track of time as he swayed underneath the table, but he knew he couldn't risk encountering anyone until he could believably hide behind his currently shredded mask.

Finally, his breathing eased and his heart was no longer beating at him like a hummingbird trying to escape a cage of bone and muscle. Baird slowly unwound himself and crawled out from his haven. He felt the heat of embarrassment color his skin, and he thanked whatever deity was listening that no one had been around to witness his weakness.

He ran a still-trembling hand through his shaggy hair, and narrowed his focus down to cleaning up his trash. He concentrated on one action at a time, barring his mind from sending him spiraling into the abyss again. He stopped at the junction between the mess and the lobby, and closing his eyes, took a deep breath and slipped back behind his facade. The engineer walked around the corner without a backwards glance, never noticing the concerned eyes that peered at him from the darkness.


	6. All the King's Horses

Marcus dragged his loaded fork across his plate and cast his eyes sideways to the wall of windows, noting that the tables closest to the wall were deserted. There were more Gears packed at each table, six or seven instead of groups of three or four. The normal cross-mess catcalls and ribbing were absent. The din had a different pitch, the buzz of nervous energy replacing the subtle undertone of nonchalance that normally characterized morning mess. It was always the little details that told him the full story, but he hadn't needed his analysis this morning; everything about his brothers, from their posture to their unconscious behavior, told him they were spooked, on edge.

"Hey, Marcus." He turned at his name and found Brody standing across the table, surrounded by his friends. He tipped an imaginary hat in Marcus' direction, grinning lightly. He had frequently been Marcus' second during their round-the-clock perimeter sweeps, and he honestly enjoyed the young man's good nature; it was no surprise that Hoffman had promoted him on Vectes. The rest of Brody's group stared at him unabashedly with awe in their eyes, and Marcus felt his breakfast take a sharp swoop in his stomach.

"Morning, Specialist." He casually saluted back, finding that he no longer had an appetite. He vacated his table (empty, as usual) and waved Brody and his pals over to take his spot.

"How're things?" he asked, picking up his plate and draining the last vestiges of Dizzy's 'coffee' from his mug. Brody stopped cutting open his biscuit to consider Marcus fully, his black eyes somehow light and clouded at once. "You mean with me, or with everyone else?" He indicated the mess with a wave of his knife.

Marcus suppressed the urge to snap at the younger man: _Yeah, been wondering how your life's holding up, how are you feeling, y'know, with these fucking monster attacks! _There was no reason to take his temper out on the kid for one stupid question. "You're so happy, the sun rises and sets from your asshole. I meant the _other_ Gears."

Brody looked at his buddies, none of whom had touched their plates. Every pair of eyes was riveted on Marcus. "Plenty of guys are freaked out, scared, mad, but plenty more are eager to fight. You know most of us can't hack it as civvies anyway. It's not like these Hybrids are really different from the Locust or the Lambent. As long as our directive is to 'kill it', we can manage." His friends nodded in agreement.

"There are some guys who blame you, though, Marcus, because of your father," Brody said seriously. "Not that we have any evidence of that, I mean. But with the imulsion cure, the hammer-" Brody colored and garbled his next few words before recovering. "And I tried to defend you, but-"

"Hold it," Marcus said, heaving a sigh. "Specialist, I appreciate the gesture, but this entire island is a stockpot of nerves, bad blood, and trigger fingers. I don't need one of my men drawing fire for defending me. I can deal with it."

"We have to stand together, Sergeant." Brody met his gaze, refusing to be cowed. A dull jolt of affection flashed through Marcus at the unexpected show of loyalty. He didn't know if he should be touched by the sentiment, or saddened because Brody still believed that the complexities of warfare revolved around 'us vs. them'. And really, when had it been any different for the common soldier?

"Yeah, you're right. We do. Thanks for the intel."

He walked back through the crowded mess to the kitchen, drawing nearly every eye on the way there. It wasn't hard to tell which Gears respected him and which ones didn't-judging from the occasional sneer, he knew some men stopped short of spitting at his feet. _Runs the gamut, doesn't it?_ He thought idly. _And what happens when 'us vs. them' turns into 'us vs. us'? _Marcus feared the Hybrids were only the tip of an iceberg poised to shatter the precarious peace they were all laboring under.

He abruptly came upon Jace and Carmine, both of them struggling to share a chair at their crowded table.

"It doesn't work. And back before all of this shit, you had to be _careful _about it."

"Nah," one of the Gears countered, "it's worked every time for me. No condom, pull out, no baby."

"Isn't that kind of..." Jace said, waving his hand in the air.

"Emasculating?" Carmine put in. When the group failed to react, he scowled and said, "Pussing out, you dumbasses." He rolled his eyes when the table broke into chaos.

Marcus was tempted to lean into the group and give his opinion on "pulling out", knowing that since it was out of character for him to speak so crassly, it would be met with laughter. But, as always, he was aware of his presence and the influence it dragged in its wake. _Maybe one day I can actually laugh at a dick joke_. He settled for smacking Carmine and Jace on their shoulders in acknowledgement before continuing on.

He reflected on the legacy he shared with his father, Anya with her mother, and wondered if anyone could truly be judged on their own merits. Environmental influences were impossible to avoid. He thought he had made the delineation clear when he snubbed the invite-only Royal Tyran Academie in favor of enlisting. But still the onus followed him everywhere, ratcheting up people's expectations, tainting their opinions, and no matter how much he triumphed, his definition still read: 'son of Adam Fenix'. Although, Marcus supposed, that definition now included 'Dishonorable Discharge to The Slab'.

He dumped his chipped plate into the plastic bin and folded up his multi tool before stowing it in a cargo pocket. He noticed Dizzy gesturing at him through the pass, Dizzy's helpers scrambling around behind him, wielding spatulas and carrying pans of pancakes.

"Marcus," Dizzy called over the roar of the refrigerator cycle, "can I have a minute?"

Marcus nodded and made his way into the kitchen.

The ex-Stranded looked troubled. "I didn't know what to do at first. But I figured I should tell you."

Marcus folded his arms and leaned against the counter. "I'm listening."

* * *

><p>That evening found Sam pulling Damon into her bedroom by the front of his shirt. Her lips were still pressed to his in a searing hot kiss as the door slammed shut behind them. She'd accosted him in the elevator when they ran into each other going back upstairs, and dragged him back to her lair post haste.<p>

With the door shut, Damon reversed their direction and pushed her against it, hiking her legs up over his hips. Sam hummed her approval and rolled herself against him. She felt his warm fingers snake their way under the hem of her shirt and clutch at her bare skin, his blunted nails leaving trails of electricity in their wake. Sam moaned into his mouth as her tongue battled with his and tightened her grip on his waist, bringing him closer into her aroused heat.

"Okay, okay, wait, " Damon said as he pulled back , breathing heavily. "This is not taking it slow. _Not at all_."

He carefully released his hold on her legs and let her slide back to stand under her own power. Sam didn't relinquish her hold around his neck, though; she wasn't prepared to let him get away completely.

"It's just kissing. We agreed that kissing was an acceptable form of taking our time," she countered, running her fingers through the soft, fine hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Not like that!" Damon said with raised eyebrows. "That was not 'making out', that was a 'prelude to sex'."

Sam scoffed, let her hands slide to his shoulders, and thudded her head softly against the door with her eyes closed. When she opened them, she gave Damon her best sad puppy look, hoping he'd take pity on her.

"That's not going to work, Samantha," he chided gently, a small smile forming on his lips.

"I know, but I had to try." She smiled slyly up at him. "What's that saying? Closed mouths don't get fed?"

"Yes, that's the saying, but I've never heard it loaded up with so much innuendo before. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Me? Innuendo? No, no, you're just projecting," Sam said in a husky voice as she leaned in to kiss him again.

Damon allowed himself the contact for a few moments before he disengaged.

"I'd better go; the air's getting a little bit thick in here." He slid his hands down her arms to her hands that were cinched behind his head. He kissed both of her palms and pulled away from her.

Sam tightened her grip on his hands and gave a cajoling look.

"Don't go. I haven't had any time with you all day. I'll behave." She smiled at him and placed her hand on her heart. "I promise."

Damon didn't respond immediately and Sam noticed that his eyes had tracked her hand to her chest and were tracing the outline of her breast. She purposely let her hand slide down and caress her flesh before pushing off the door and pulling him towards her bed.

"Come here," she commanded softly, crawling backwards onto the mattress.

Damon licked his lips, whether with anxiety or anticipation, Sam couldn't tell.

"What happened to behaving?" His eyes flicked between her chest and her face, never staying in either place for long.

"I am. Don't worry, Damon. No touching below the waist," Sam purred and pulled him towards her into a wet kiss.

Damon pulled himself onto the bed with her, pushing her onto her back. Sam smoothly spread her legs for him, creating a cradle for him to rest his weight. She moaned quietly when he adjusted himself in the space she made. Sam could feel his growing erection pressing up against her moistened core, and the need to hump herself against that hardness was dangerously close to overcoming her need to respect his wishes.

She growled and bit at his lip, arching herself into him to create more friction. Damon's hands roamed over her body, sliding over her top to knead her breasts. She couldn't contain her enthusiastic moan when his hands brushed over the exposed skin at the scooped neck of her shirt and sent bolts of pleasure down her nerves. Even with the doubled barrier of her tank top and bra, she could sense the heat of his hands like they were hot coals.

Sam took in a deep breath and canted her hips to one side, sending Damon sliding. She took his moment of bewilderment to push him onto his back and straddle him. The new position molded her core to his thick cock, and she allowed herself to indulge in a few excruciatingly pleasurable gyrations. Damon moaned softly beneath her and set his hands on her hips to still her movements, even as he bucked into her.

"Let me have this?" She asked as she panted through her arousal. Her skin was alight, and all of her senses had focused in on Damon; how he felt, how he tasted, how he smelled. At this moment, nothing was more important to her than getting closer to him. After a brief hesitation, she felt his iron grip on her release.

She made a slow circle with her hips, her eyes pinning Damon where he lay. She reached for the bottom of her shirt and pulled it off. He loosed another quiet groan at the exposure of her skin to his eyes, and set about tracing the contours of her sweat-slicked, toned stomach.

Sam let her head fall back as she rode him. Even the feeling of her hair against her bare skin pushed her closer to the edge. She ran her fingertips up her sides and over her breasts, enjoying the way her skin pebbled at her own touch. She knew that by now her wetness was seeping through her trousers and onto his cargoes and moaned brokenly at the thought. She could feel Damon responding to her, could hear his stuttered breathing; his hands had begun a clutch and release rhythm on her curved hips, and he was meeting her thrust for thrust.

She reached down and pressed her hand to his lower stomach, feeling the flexing muscles. She could feel herself starting to shake as her pace quickened. She called to Damon, to God, and let out a shuddering moan. She levered herself lower and braced her hands on his chest, letting her head fall as she concentrated on reaching her peak. Sam could sense that completion was just moments away, just beyond her reach. She doubled her efforts, racing towards her orgasm.

She lifted her eyes to look at Damon and saw that he was watching her intently. His pupils had dilated in arousal, and his irises had darkened to a deep forest green. The way he studied her, as if he were noting every move and sound she made, as if, at that moment, she was the center of his world, sent her careening over the edge. Her release hit her like a freight train and carried her off. Her fingers wound into Damon's shirt and she let loose a drawn-out moan. Her brows knitted together, and she took in deep gulps of air as her orgasm crested.

Her arms shook and finally gave out, sending her falling into Damon's chest. She listened to his racing heartbeat for a few long moments as she gathered her wits.

"Sorry if I just plowed right through all those boundaries of yours." Sam sent him a silly grin, still riding her euphoric high.

"It's -" he paused to clear his throat. "It's okay. We haven't broken any rules."

Sam looked up at him with hooded eyes and slid her crotch back to his – finding that he was still hard. Something zipped through her belly at the knowledge that he hadn't come, that he'd managed to hold back. She felt her core pulse at the idea of what it would be like when he turned that formidable concentration towards love-making.

"I need to change," she said, dismounting him and sauntering towards her chest of drawers.

She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him running his hands roughly through his blonde hair, and blowing out a flustered breath. Her smiled dropped, and she turned back to rifle through her drawers. Even from this distance, she'd seen the uncertainty that had darted through his expression, and she felt a sourness in her gut as she started listing all the things that she might have done wrong tonight.

Sam quickly changed into her night clothes and walked back out to Damon. He'd moved to perch on the edge of the bed, and eyed her as she moved towards him. Sam stopped in front of him, and they watched each other momentarily before she moved to sit beside him. She turned sideways and propped one of her legs on the bed, leaving enough space between them that there was no chance of contact.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked, an unsure lilt in her voice.

"What makes you think that?" he replied, not making eye contact.

Sam stared incredulously, then looked away from him. The air in the room was thick with tension, and the uncomfortable vibes flowing from him were almost tangible. The two fell into an awkward silence, each looking anywhere but at the other.

"Samantha, you didn't do anything I wasn't willing to let you do."

"But you didn't _want_ it. You just let me use you." Sam's stomach turned at the insinuation. "Why didn't you stop me?"

Damon turned to look her in confusion.

"Why didn't I _stop_ you? Really?" He gave her a disbelieving side-eyed look. "Why didn't I stop the really hot chick from giving me a free show? That's your question?"

"But you didn't want me! You didn't fucking want it and you let me go at you like some kind of... lady-rapist."

"Sam, you can't rape the willing. Do you really think I would've let you get me on that bed if I hadn't wanted to?" One side of his mouth had quirked up in a smirk.

"But you just laid there like some kind of life-sized sex toy. And then after...the look on your face..." Sam slumped and looked down at her hands. Even with his reassurance, she felt like she'd done something she shouldn't have.

"I just don't want you to have any expectations of me that I can't meet. Or _don't want_ to meet." He shrugged and gave her frank stare. "You can't take back sex. There's a strict 'no refunds' policy."

"Oh, fuck you, _Baird_." Sam retorted hotly. She stood from the bed and glared at him.

"You fucking asshole."

Damon's eyebrows shot up and he followed her from the bed.

"You're mad? You did ask." He watched her pace the floor with an unreadable expression.

"Am I mad? Are you kidding? I – I put myself on the line here and you're making jokes? I'm trying to build something substantial and you're busy trying to be _quippy_. How can you be so goddamned cavalier about this?"

She turned from him to hide the way her eyes had begun to water in her fury, and took in a deep breath. She heard Damon's muffled steps in the lush carpet, but didn't turn when he snaked a hand onto her shoulder.

"Samantha, I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm not good at this." He tightened his grip on her, trying to coax her into looking at him.

"Yeah, no shit, Inspector." Sam jerked her shoulder from his grasp and moved away from him.

She was allowed a moment of stillness before she sensed him moving towards her again. He grabbed both of her shoulders and spun her around to face him. Sam felt a brief jolt of dismay when she saw Damon's thunderous expression. His fingers tightened on her flesh, and he opened his mouth to speak before snapping it shut so hard she heard his teeth click together. He stalked away from her to the middle of the room.

"Do you -" he broke off and clenched his fists before trying again.

"Do you even understand what _this_ is? I'm completely out of my depth here. If I'm being cavalier, it's because _I don't know what else to do_. No one else has ever wanted this from me, and I've never let them." Damon crossed his arms defensively. "Everybody else knows my defense mechanisms. Why don't you? These behaviors don't come from nowhere: just ask Cole."

Sam watched the play of emotions on his face as he spoke, and she knew that she'd just gotten a hard-won confession; being open about his feelings wasn't something Damon was known for. He began to shift nervously under her scrutiny, his eyes darting around the room. He kept his arms tightly folded, looking every bit like he wanted to bolt.

She sighed and marched towards him, placing her hands on his shoulders.

"You drive me _nuts_," she said, pressing her forehead to his.

"Yeah, well..." Her posture was still rigid, but he let his arms fall to his sides.

"I'm sorry for getting mad," she apologized quietly, moving in closer to him and leaning into his chest.

She felt the expansion and contraction of his ribs as he vented a deep sigh, and wrapped her up in his arms.

"It's okay. I was being kind of a dick," he murmured into her hair.

Sam pulled back and speared him with a dubious look.

"_Kind_ of a dick?" She questioned.

"God, _shut up_. We're supposed to be having a deep, touching moment here, you _savage_." Damon squeezed her tightly as he said it, taking the sting out of the dig.

"Ooh, who's the cold bitch, _now_?" She shoved him and playfully shot a soft jab at his gut. "_Unbelievable_."

Damon laughed and moved out of her reach.

"I really should go this time. I need a … shower."

"Scared I'll make you forget your vow?" Sam asked slyly as she walked with him to her door. "_Again_?"

"A little, yeah," he admitted. He rested his hand on the doorknob but didn't turn it. "By the way, that was _really fucking hot_."

Sam grinned and nodded, slipping an arm around his neck.

"Goodnight, Damon." She wrapped her other arm around him, tightening her hold when he pulled her into him by her waist. She took in his scent, carbolic soap and something distinctly _male_, and decided that he was hers.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips. To Sam, it was different than every other one they'd shared tonight; those had been sparking with sexual energy, but this one was sweet and gentle, and it made her knees go weak.

"I'll see you in the morning, Samantha," he responded and slipped out of the door.

* * *

><p>Sam found Cole lounging outside on one the balconies near the mess hall just as the sun was coming up. He was nursing a steaming mug of tea, trying to wake up for his early morning patrol. He held the hot cup in his plate sized hands, and breathed in the lightly scented steam, eyes still shut with the weight of insufficient sleep.<p>

"You just gonna stand there or are you gonna join me?" he asked, sending her an amused glance over his shoulder.

Sam cocked an eyebrow and abandoned her observation perch in the doorway.

"How did you know I was there?" She skirted around the gilded table and took a seat across from him.

"I didn't know it was _you,_ I just knew it was _someone_," Cole answered, fighting a yawn. "My sixth sense is _primed_."

He tapped his temple twice and sent her an impish look.

Sam couldn't help but smile at his perpetually cheerful nature. It distantly occurred to her that an angry Augustus Cole would be one scary motherfucker.

"That's useful. I wish I had a sixth sense; sometimes I think my 'woman's intuition' is broken." Sam dropped her chin into her hands and gazed out at the brightening sky, taking in the golds and pinks as they saturated the horizon. She flicked her eyes back to Cole when she felt the weight of his attention on her.

"You okay, Sam?" He set the half empty mug on the table and gave her concerned look.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam chuffed out, laughing. "Just... it was a long night. A _good_ night, but a long one."

"I know the feeling," Cole said conspiratorially, sending her a knowing wink. "I guess _you're_ the reason I didn't hear from Baird all yesterday?"

Sam let the happy grin stretch her cheeks, not trying to hide it. She was excited to be talking about it with someone. She didn't have any close female friends; she wasn't especially close to Anya, and, even if she was, she was pretty sure the older woman was not interested in hearing about her budding relationship with Damon.

Cole let loose a guffawing laugh and reached out to pat her shoulder.

"You're good for him, baby. You're driving him _crazy_. He's so twisted up right now, it's not even funny. Well, it is funny because watching Damon try and navigate the real world – especially the real world of _women_ – is funnier than anything else in the whole universe."

"Cole! Be nice," she scolded playfully. She looked back out to the horizon, silly smile still plastered on her face. "I could've sworn I hated the guy. Turns out he's not as big a dick-pickle as I though he was. It's so weird, you know? "

"Yes, it is. It's a non-stop roller-coaster of _weirdness_, baby. Buckle up." Cole laughed again, his face settling into the familiar genial expression. "It has its rewards, though. Damon's a good man. He's just _prickly_."

Sam stared him with an expression that clearly displayed how much of an understatement she thought the term _prickly_ was.

"God, what did I get myself into, getting involved with Damon Baird?" Sam asked ruefully "I must be a masochist."

"We all must be – it takes work to be his friend." Cole's eyes took on considering look. "He's all surface tension. I guess that makes you the soap."

"Sorry, Professor, what are you saying?" Sam shot him an amused look.

"Nothing gets to Baird, not really. He'll bitch and moan, but a good amount of it is an act,"Cole stated in a curious tone. "He just... deflects. It's like skipping stones. You, though, you're getting under his skin – breaking his surface tension, so to speak. It's an interesting phenomenon."

Sam paused, slightly taken aback.

"Did you just equate my relationship with Damon to tossing rocks at a pond?"

"Don't hate! It's an accurate comparison," Cole said with false indignation. "In time, you'll see that I'm right."

Sam laughed loudly and leaned back in her seat. By now the sun had breached the horizon and the cool, early morning air was beginning to heat up. She turned back to Cole, ready to sally back with a clever joke, but it died in her throat when she saw the serious look in his eyes.

"You're serious about this, right? I mean, you're serious about Damon, about wanting to be with him? Because he's been fucked over by enough people in his life. He doesn't need another name to add to the list. And I don't want to have to stop being friends with you because you hurt him."

Sam was taken by surprise at the mood change, but recovered quickly. She'd figured that this conversation was coming. She turned to him fully before answering.

"I won't hurt him," Sam paused and considered her words. "I'll do everything I can not to hurt him. I'm not scratching an itch or tampering with him. I care for Damon, a lot. I'm kind of hoping for this to be...a permanent thing."

The two fell into silence as Cole weighed her truthfulness. Sam waited with bated breath for his reaction; it was important to her for him to know that she meant everything she'd said. Cole eyed her for a long moment before he broke out into a smile.

"I can see why he's so into you. I've known him for a long time, and you're the first female I've ever seen him get close to who wasn't a bi-monthly fuck buddy."

Sam felt a stab of jealousy at the thought of other women being all over Damon. Cole must've seen the displeasure in her face; he laughed out loud and took her hand in his.

"Don't worry about it, baby," he said. "Those ladies are long gone. He's all yours, now."

Sam smiled sheepishly and squeezed his hand.

"I'd better get to work. I've got to monitor the comms tower or Damon might break up with me." She gave his hand another friendly press before releasing him. "Thanks for talking with me, Cole. You're a gentleman."

"You're welcome," he said with a slight laugh. "I'd better head out, too. The grounds aren't gonna patrol themselves, are they?"

The two stood and walked from the balcony and through the mess hall together. They paused at the junction that lead to the main hub, about to go in separate directions – Sam to the eastern end of the island near the beach, and Cole in the opposite direction to join his squad.

"Hey, Cole?" Sam called after they'd separated. "Am I really driving him crazy?" A sly smiled formed on her face. A few ideas were coming to her on how to capitalize on _that _bit of information.

"Oh, yeah. Right out of his mind, girl." Cole's smile widened. He could read the mischief in Sam's eyes. Baird wouldn't know what hit him.

Sam beamed and turned to leave for work.

"And, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Be gentle with him. Don't send him back to work with a limp or anything."

Sam let out an undignified guffaw at the implications of that request.

"I'll do my best to leave him intact."

Cole sent her a mock salute and moved off towards his destination.

Sam stayed rooted to her spot for a moment, letting herself bask in her newfound happiness. She couldn't quite express how much she appreciated Cole's vote of confidence, or how much it meant that someone else thought that the two of them were good for each other. She let a smile spread across her face and finally pushed on to her waiting team.

* * *

><p>"Uh, oh," Carmona shouted.<p>

Baird glanced up from the lap joint he was welding, and saw Carmona gesturing first at him, then outside. He killed the torch, the _snap-hiss _echoing around the repair bay, and flicked the welding helmet faceplate up. Baird doffed the heavy leather gloves and wiped the sweat off his face.

"What?" he called, disappointed that he had been interrupted. Welding material wasn't hard to come by, but quality instruments to do the job were rare. Azura was a frigging fairy godmother that kept on giving, it seemed.

The younger man's gaze was riveted beyond the courtyard outside. "It's Commander Trescu."

Baird snorted. "Uh, so what?"

Carmona took a step back from the door. "So, he's making a beeline for us and he's got back-up."

The other engineers around Baird stilled at the pronouncement. He did a quick head count, his vague suspicion confirmed: none of his Gorasni engineers had shown up for work today. He felt his stomach drop out, and his heart pumped once, painfully. _I'll just get on the comm and report that he's storming our way_-Baird thought, before another realization soured his stomach with cold dread.

Trescu was coming for _him. _He was the most senior-ranking officer present, which meant that the responsibility fell squarely on his shoulders. And he knew exactly what Trescu was so angry about. He hoped fervently the Gorasni leader wasn't here to commit homicide.

"Corporal Baird!"

Trescu's cultured voice rang out, and Baird hated the way he inwardly quailed at the sound of it. _Where's my 'don't give a fuck' attitude? What am I now, a pussy? Fuck him, and fuck whatever bullshit he's about to sling. _Baird steeled his resolve and sauntered into the courtyard, not bothering to take off the heavy welding apron. A little intimidation never hurt. The day was beautiful: sunny, but not too hot, with a slight breeze coming in fitful gusts from the southward side of the island.

He adopted a dismissive stance and watched Trescu's men form up behind him. Baird noted two things: that Trescu's men were armed, and that Trescu himself was dressed in full regimentals, down to the slightly-singed epaulettes. _Sweet mercy, he never takes a day off, does he? Why aren't he and Marcus friends again?_

"What do you want?" he asked in a hard tone. There was no point in mincing words. It appeared as though Trescu was looking to start shit, and Baird would damn well accommodate him.

"I want to talk," Trescu said, his voice and posture too calm for Baird's liking.

"You're so full of shit your eyes are brown," he retorted. "What is this, a locker room? You don't bring ten dudes with you to an ice cream social. What the fuck do you want?"

"I want your imulsion formula, and any Class-B engine modification schematics you may have."

Baird snorted incredulously. "Oh, is that all? Would you also like the schematics for me ramming my fist up your ass?"

"Where's your handler?" Trescu asked, and it took Baird a moment to process that he meant _Marcus_.

"You and your group of drunken illiterates are really starting to chafe my jockstrap," he said irritably, warming to the subject, embracing his pent-up temper over the events of the past few weeks. "I barely make headway with our _shared_ imulsion problem, and the first thought you have is that I'm _holding out on you?_ Did I not pass your fucking friendship test when I stuck my neck out for you with Hoffman, or was baking a cake and making a daisy chain more in line with your expectations?"

"Oh, but wait," Baird said sardonically, "being a treacherous asshole is more the Indie style. No wonder you fuckers couldn't organize-" He was halted in his rant by the burst of white hot pain that exploded on his left side, leaving him dazed and short of breath. He cast his gaze to the stone pavers, wishing he could teleport away from this clusterfuck of a situation.

"Baird!"

His head snapped up, and he watched Carmona step into the path of the Gorasni moving to intercept him. They were nose-to-nose. He sensed the energy shift behind him as his engineers stepped closer, right as the Indie shoved Carmona aside and made to grab Baird by his shirtfront. Pure rage coursed through him, and he dropped into a crouch, coiling his legs, and launched himself forward, bowling the Gorasni over.

He landed three solid punches squarely to the surprised mans face, shouting, "Goddamnit, is this the only language you bullies understand?" before one of his guys yanked him back.

The only thought he could muster, oddly, was the stilted paragraph about officer decorum in the manual that he had been forced to read the _first _time they promoted him to Corporal. He was pretty sure that if this had been a meeting of diplomatic envoys, he would have effectively kick-started a war.

"Is something the matter?" Trescu asked, unmoving, as his soldier stumbled back into the ranks of his comrades, cupping a hand to catch the blood gushing from his nose.

"Yeah," Baird ground out, fighting to tear his own traitorous hand away from its death grip over his heart. Trescu's impassiveness was maddening. "Your thugs are going to give me a _heart attack._"

"Maybe you should invite me inside," Trescu said, indicating the warehouse, his voice condescending and laden with mockery. "We both need to calm down, I think."

Carmona streaked forward past Baird's elbow. "I'll fucking choke you to death," he growled, angling straight for Trescu. Two Gears caught him by the arms and tried to haul him away, but he lunged against their grip, and it took another engineer to wrestle him back behind the unspoken no-man's-land between the two factions.

"Stop, just stop. Ugh-"Baird's face contorted as he fought the urge to crumple to the ground.

"Corporal, my request is merely a formality," Trescu said, his demeanor steely. "I came here for the intel, and I will leave with it, one way or the other." His soldiers fingered their sidearms meaningfully. "You COG, you never learn. This is why we never trusted you, why we had to stoop to rifling through your files."

Baird felt his sanity take a cliff-dive as Trescu confirmed what he had overhead that night, weeks ago. He had a brief image of the copy of his findings he had made for Trescu: collated, color-coded, and bound-and entertained the idea of tossing it into the welding furnace. He was _done _with being polite, he was _done _with being helpful, and his incandescent rage was only camouflaging the true hurt that sat leaden in his stomach at Trescu's insinuation. _This is why it's easier to be an asshole_, he thought bitterly. His heart continued its double-time staccato, thumping angrily. Each beat was a boot stomp, bearing down on his chest, and he wondered, distantly, if he was _actually _about to have a heart attack.

"I'll burn everything I've discovered to the ground, and dance around the bonfire if I think I can catch just _one _of you Indie motherfuckers in the flames!" Baird snarled, his eyes so clouded with rage he could barely see.

"Isn't that a bit...dramatic? You'd be shooting yourself in the foot, not to mention your fellow Gears," Trescu countered, the timbre of his voice no longer calm but heated. It was all the incentive Baird needed to move in for the kill.

"Just _try _me. Give me an excuse to play with matches. I'll keep you from ever getting back to that wasteland you call home. How did you like having your asses seared well-done by your own goddamn tech?" A chorus of tiny gasps escaped his engineers at the heinous taunt. Trescu's entire bearing had collapsed into stunned silence.

Baird drew a shallow breath into his petrified chest, the pain having reached a level beyond his ability to suppress. "You strut around here in your uniform, as if you matter, as if you're better, as if you're not always two steps behind the COG. You're just like Prescott. The only reason you ever had a shot of leaving this island is because I was willing to share with you. You started off begging for the COG's assistance, and you're still begging for it now, like a two-bit whore on her knees. Well, I'm about to fuck you good and proper; I hope your people can sew, because you're gonna need a fuckton of bedsheets if you intend to sail away from this island, because that's the only way you can leave."

Trescu drew his sidearm, a pearl-handled revolver with elaborate engraving, and leveled it at Baird's nose. His face was empty of expression, just a cold gleam of apathy in his eyes-a mask Baird recognized all too well; he had worn it every time he'd needed to execute another human being.

Marcus suddenly flowed from the plantings on the right, light on his feet, and Baird stared oafishly as Marcus grabbed the revolver barrel and jerked it downward. The tense moment that followed seemed to last for hours. _Oh, goody. My knight in shining armor, come to save the day,_ Baird thought with a sneer, glad his relief didn't show on his face. He fought the urge to collapse to his knees and settled for hunching over.

"You're out of line," Marcus said in that scary-calm voice that made the hair on Baird's neck stand up. "You need to think very carefully about what you do next. I don't appreciate you drawing a weapon on an unarmed group of _my _Gears."

"I came for what is mine," Trescu said, matching Marcus' tone. He yanked his revolver out of Marcus' grip and holstered it.

"I think you need to head back to the ship," Marcus advised. "I'll send someone by later with the research manual Baird put together." Trescu's gaze flashed over to Baird, but he switched his attention when Marcus pointed right in his face. "If I see one, single Gorasni come off that ship, I'm ordering a shelling right there in the harbor."

Trescu's dark eyes snapped with rage. "Fenix-how good of you to leave your ivory tower. I also want intel on your Hybrids."

Marcus squinted at him, appraising his sincerity. "What about them?"

"What about them? What about them?" Trescu bared his teeth and loosed a frustrated growl. "Let's start with the fact that no one alerted us to their presence? We are under your care, however unwillingly," he said with a sneer. "You are charged with watching out for my people. And you failed. Utterly. I lost six men to those atrocities before we could organize enough to drive them back."

Trescu grabbed the lip of Marcus' plates under his chin and pulled him close. Baird's heart leaped into his throat. He was certain the Gorasni commander was moments away from death, but Marcus didn't react. "So, is this another little gift from your father? Hmm? Or did you intentionally loose them to obliterate us? You betrayed my trust."

Marcus looked down at Trescu's fist upon his armor, and back to the Gorasni. "This is trust?" he said in his typical deadpan.

"Hey asshole, _I'm _the one who let the Hybrids loose," Baird said, staggering up a few paces behind Marcus. "And can we stop getting on the 'blame Dr. Fenix' bandwagon? I mean, seriously, it's so old. And admit it: it only made you feel a teensy bit better having someone to blame all of your barbequed citizens on, right?"

"Baird," Marcus said in a tired voice.

"You would have been executed in Gorasnaya for such arrogance," Trescu fumed.

"Then aren't I lucky that I only got donkey-punched by the COG?" Baird retorted.

Marcus ripped himself away from Trescu's grasp, and motioned for Baird to shut up. "Get out of here. And don't shoot my Gear when he comes with your manual," he said, "Or I'll board your floating tenement and blow your brains out myself."

Trescu shrugged off Marcus' threat and walked (quickly) back down the path to the ship. Marcus watched him go for several minutes. Baird was only half paying attention-now that he wasn't in the spotlight, he could focus on getting his breathing and heart rate back to normal, before Marcus started asking questions. _How long had he been there?_ Baird would bet his last side of bacon that Fenix had been stalking through the plants, watching the whole situation unfold. A twinge of pain made him contract inward, but at least he could stand up straight.

He watched Marcus glance at the group of engineers and bark, "Alright, back to work!" The Gears hurried inside, anxious to be out from under Marcus' intense stare. Before he could formulate a retreat, Baird found himself looking at Marcus' boots.

"Yeah, I was watching all of this go down," Marcus said, answering Baird's unspoken question. "I wanted to see how you handled it."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Fenix. When am I getting promoted?" _If I can just keep him talking for a few more minutes..._

"You're still white as a sheet," Marcus said, ignoring him. "And you were clutching at your heart. Are you going to clue me in, or are you going to give me some bullshit about sparing my feelings again?"

"Haha, Marcus, funny. Everyone knows you don't have any real feelings," Baird said. Instantly he knew he had gone too far when a strange look passed through Marcus' eyes and he set his jaw deliberately. He started to apologize but Marcus cut him off.

"Once more: what is going on with you?" Marcus' voice had dropped a few octaves. He sounded almost...cajoling.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Baird replied, straightening his apron self-consciously.

Marcus snorted mirthlessly. "Yeah, I'm sure you don't."

"Look, I have shit to take care of. Thanks for getting rid of the Indies." Baird turned away, but Marcus intervened, placing himself between Baird and the warehouse.

"Indies? Tune has changed, eh?" He quirked an eyebrow at Baird, then looked past him towards the harbor, where _Egar Trescu_ rode at anchor. "I don't blame you, but, it just proves what an appalling liar you are."

"If I told you I had panic attacks as a kid, would that appease you?"

"No. Because that's not what just happened. But I know how you are with your _secrets._" He made a girly gesture with his hands.

Baird knew then that he couldn't escape Marcus without divulging something substantial. "Fine. I had heart palpitations as a kid, and now, mysteriously, they're back to fuck with me."

"Are they serious enough to warrant seeing Hayman?"

Marcus' conversational tone threw him off-kilter. _Maybe he won't force me into the harpy's clutches. That would be a first. _"No. They just started a few days ago. It's all the caffeine, probably."

"And lack of sleep," Marcus observed pointedly.

Baird shrugged. "You aren't going to dress me down about Trescu?"

Marcus looked mildly surprised. "Why would I?"

"Uh, because I verbally assaulted him, insinuated that I would punch his teeth through his asshole, and I _physically _assaulted one of his guys."

It was Marcus' turn to shrug. "You didn't say anything I wasn't thinking. And coming down here on the sly to strong-arm you?" Marcus heaved a sigh, and Baird noticed, again, the gray hair peeping out from under his do-rag. "The situation on _Egar_ must be much worse than he's letting on."

"So, are we done here?" Baird asked, anxious to end the conversation. He'd been expecting more of a reaction from Marcus over his admission, and the absence of one left him feeling strangely empty. _What? Did I want him to sob all over me? It's out. Now I can move on._

"Does Cole know about your heart condition?"

Baird bristled. "It's not a 'condition', ok? It happened a few times when I was twelve. Are you going to blab it all over the island or something?"

Marcus was abruptly in his face. "Look, you can lie to yourself about whatever you want, but you can't keep shit like this from me."

Baird drew himself up in righteous indignation. "Who died and made you king, Fenix? Besides Prescott."

"Dom died, actually, which I'm sure you haven't forgotten." He seemed satisfied with Baird's shocked silence, and started to walk away. "I know you're still lying. So make sure that if you have a heart attack, please collapse on a major walkway so we can find you later, you stubborn ass," he called over his shoulder.

* * *

><p>Baird spent the rest of the day working furiously on various projects scattered around his station. The other engineers steered well clear of him: he'd been in the foulest of moods since Trescu's little temper tantrum and Marcus' 'fear me, for I am all knowing' follow-up.<p>

He slammed his wrench on the table hard enough to make everything atop it shake and slide. He'd been slamming things all day – it was his only outlet since his men fled in fear at the sight of him, he couldn't get to Trescu (or any of his unwashed grunts), and telling Marcus off wouldn't earn him anything more than some cryptic, pseudo-psychic observational quip about his mental health.

He'd never felt so impotent in all his life, and the coiling anger was not helping him keep his seditious heart from beating its way through his ribcage and tumbling to the floor.

_Stupid heart. You double-crossing, fair-weather friend_.

The engineer twisted quickly in his chair at the sound of footsteps behind him.

"Hey, Baird," Carmona said lightly, giving him an unsure look. "We're all heading out now. Just…so you know."

The mean, biting side of Baird wanted to lash out at the other man, but he gave himself a mental bitch slap and reined the urge in. After all, Carmona _had_ come to his aid during the Trescu Showdown: verbally castrating the younger man just to sate his petty need for retaliation wouldn't be the best way to repay his consideration. He noticed the other men lingering by the entrance - probably waiting to see if he spontaneously burst into flames and unleashed some terrifying hell-beast upon them all.

_Oh, wait. I've already done that_, he thought, recalling the flippant confession he'd made regarding the Hybrids.

"Fine," Baird said, forcing himself to at least _appear_ sane and mature. "I'll see you all in the morning. And, Carmona? Thanks for threatening to murder Trescu on my behalf. At least now, when the gossip mill churns out the mostly incorrect version of what happened today, you'll look as unhinged as me."

"It was a pleasure. I've wanted to hurt that asshole since I first saw him strutting around Vectes in his shiny, little boots," Carmona returned before waving goodbye and going to join the rest of the engineers who were waiting on the armed security detail to escort them to the hub.

Baird blew out a long raspberry, and turned back to his workstation. He suddenly had no desire to work. He looked hatefully at the mess on his desk. The scrap metal, loose wiring, and other assorted bits and pieces mocked him from their low perch. He thought idly how the mishmash in front of him was an oddly impactful narrative on his life at the moment.

Baird rolled his eyes at himself and pulled a cover of the clutter.

_What the fuck, _self_. Did you trade in your balls for a set of ovaries? Get a goddamned grip, you bitch_.

He pushed away from the table and crossed his arms sulkily. He'd been mentally berating himself since Marcus had left in a tornado of self-righteousness. He wondered, distantly, what grade the older man would've given him for how he 'handled' the Goransi incursion. That is, if shit like that mattered anymore. Baird figured, for the sake of entertainment, he would've gotten an 'F' for execution, but an 'A' for effort, enthusiasm and originality. So, he wouldn't pass with flying colors, or get to bounce sunlight off his shiny gold medal and into the eyes of the dumber, less awesome people, but it would do.

He leaned backwards in his seat, pushing the reclining back to its most extreme angle, and stared at the overhead lights until he was sure he could hear the slight sizzle of his corneas. He shut his eyes and saw the ghostly after-images of the fixtures; vague off-color rectangles and smaller, floating lights that raced in unpredictable lines across his vision.

Baird was reminded of the one time in his life that he'd let himself give in to peer pressure, and let a friend of his feed him a tab of acid. The results had been almost instantaneous; his pathetic meat sack of a body had given in to the drug as if it were a long-lost lover –- who was into freaky sex and never had a headache. The brief snatches of memory he had from that harrowing experience included duct tape, a swimming pool, handcuffs, and a gut-wrenching sadness that the overhead lights were trying to communicate with him, but his feeble human brain couldn't comprehend the words. He also remembered his mother's horrible, screeching voice when she came to pick him up from jail. It was one of only a handful of times that having the last name 'Baird' didn't fuck him up the ass.

A crash from across the room jangled his nerves and sent him shooting from his chair and reaching for his pistol. Baird spun around on his toes, already falling into a defensive crouch. His gun was halfway up when he finally spotted the source of the cacophony.

"Fucking _shit_, Marlowe," the blonde exclaimed. "What the hell is your problem. And why are you sneaking around down here after hours? Get out."

_Damned weirdo, skulking about like some kind of inept assassin._

Baird turned his back on the younger man, holstered his gun, and began to self-consciously straighten his desk; he felt a pinch of irritated embarrassment at being caught day-dreaming. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and he whirled back around.

Marlowe hadn't moved – or answered his questions. He stood there, staring at Baird with a sub-zero look in his eyes. To Baird, it seemed that the other man's eyes actually _glittered_ with anger, and he remembered, belatedly, that his mental folder for Marlowe had a big, red 'crazy as fuck' stamped on it.

_Really, God?_

"What? What's your problem," Baird asked sarcastically. "Please, regale me with your despairing tale so I can feel as though I've done my duty as a person. And then you can _fuck off_."

Still, the young man didn't answer. He only deepened his frown, and stepped up to the high table in the middle of the room that separated the two men.

"What, do you need a signal? Ready? Go." Baird's irritation climbed higher and higher. He found that he was surprised that steam hadn't begun to flow freely from his ears. "Christ, Marlowe, what do you _want_?"

"This is _your fault_," Marlowe ground out through gritted teeth.

Baird was taken aback by the seeming non-sequitur, and found himself putting on a mask he hadn't fully donned in over a decade.

"What's my fault, man," he asked nastily, settling into his old role of a 'fucking bastard' as if were a warm bath. "Because, if you're trying to say that you being a fucking weirdo and staring at me from the shadows is my fault, then I'll be forced to disagree wholeheartedly."

A crestfallen look crossed over Marlowe's face before he set it back into a granite expression. Baird made a show of rolling his eyes at the sign of vulnerability.

_Great. Now, I'm going to have to help this little cock-gobbler pick up the pieces of his broken heart. Fuck that._

"Look, kid, sorry for being an asshole, or whatever, and I'm sure you've got a great story to tell about who or what put that hang-dog expression on your face, but in the interest of saving time – why don't you cut to the chase and tell me _why you're_ _here_."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was shaking his head at himself, some part of him was disgusted with his actions, but right now, he'd found an easy mark to take the brunt of his ire, and he wasn't letting up until he was good and ready.

Marlowe let out cold, heartless laugh and slowly began to skirt around the table. When his lower half came into view, Baird noticed that he was tapping the barrel of a boltok pistol against his thigh. He tensed as the overhead light gleamed off the weapon.

_Super._

"You cold-hearted devil. You don't even care," the young man spat out. His lips were curling into a snarl and his skin was flushing in his anger.

"Care about what? I don't know what you're -"

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Goddamn you, it's your fault." Flecks of spittle flew from Marlowe's mouth as he sped towards Baird, stopping only a few paces away. The boltok was now leveled at Baird's head, the muzzle bobbing in response to Marlowe's shaking grip.

_Again? I'm being threatened with a bullet to the head again?_

Baird lifted his hands, trying to look non-threatening, but he held his ground. He knew that if the other man got just a bit closer, he'd be able to disarm him; people tended to forget that guns were long range weapons.

"Okay, okay," Baird said in his best soothing voice. "I'm listening. What's my fault?"

"Oh, of course you're listening now," Marlowe retorted. "Everyone starts listening when there's a gun in their face."

"Yes, they make for excellent motivation to play nice, "Baird bandied back, willing Marlowe to come just a few steps closer – without pulling the trigger. "You still haven't told me what I've done wrong."

Marlowe shot him an ugly smile and cocked the hammer on his pistol.

"You set them free. Those – _monsters_ killed my friend. He's dead, and you're to blame," he bit out, his voice taking on a hysterical edge.

Baird felt his stomach begin to try and fight its way out of its allotted space in his abdomen and plummet to his knees.

_The Hybrids_, he thought to himself. He felt his breath leave him at the accusation – and at how it rang true to him.

"Nothing to say now, hmm," Marlowe asked. He back up a few steps and continued to eye Baird with hatred.

"You've left me with nothing. I can't stay here and there's nowhere to go. All these people are trapped here with these things that _you_ let loose. Everyone who's died – their blood is on your hands. You were so busy being a _genius_ that you never stopped to think of the consequences for other people. _You selfish prick,_ " Marlowe snarled. "You should be the one who's dead. You deserve it more than anyone. You've brought hell down on us. _You_ should have to pay the price."

Baird's sharp wit had abandoned him, leaving him speechless and breathless in the face of a crazed lunatic. He licked his lips and prepared to make a retort, but immediately shut his mouth. Marlowe's words banged around in his head, marrying those secret thoughts and feelings of guilt he'd had since the Hybrids attacked the hotel. Baird had memorized the names of every soul lost that night, even the Goransi ones, and had stowed them away in his 'shit I did wrong' box. Marlowe had unknowingly kicked that box open, and all of Baird's doubts and insecurities about the living plague he'd loosed were running rampant in his head.

"Why would you do this? Why would you do something so cruel," Marlowe asked, his voice cracking. His brown eyes shone with unshed tears as he looked plaintively at Baird. The rage had gone out of him, and now he was just another broken man in a world full of broken men.

"You forced my hand, Baird. I can't stay here and I can't leave. This is my only way out."

The young man turned his back to the blonde and stuck the barrel of his boltok into his mouth.

"No," Baird shouted, putting out a warding hand and moving forward.

He came to a staggering halt when the retort from the gun echoed around the room like a vicious taunt. Baird could only stare at the twitching, bleeding body on the ground. His eyes were riveted on the ragged mess of tissue where, just seconds ago, Marlowe's head had been. He didn't notice the other engineers running in, or their startled cries when they saw the headless corpse on the ground. He distantly heard someone say something about 'going to get Fenix', but he couldn't bring himself to react. He could only stare numbly down at the spreading puddle of blood and mentally recite Marlowe's words to himself.

_Your fault. Your fault. Your fault._

Suddenly, Carmona's face filled his vision.

"Shit, Baird," he said. To Baird it sounded like he was speaking to him from miles away. He noticed the horrified look on his friends face as he scanned his body, and finally looked down at himself.

First, he noticed that the growing pool of blood was slowly winding its way around the soles of his combat boots.

Second, he noticed the crimson stains on his cargo pants and his white t-shirt. He saw the red speckles on his arm, and small chunks of what looked like raw meat adhering to his shirt sleeves.

His senses rushed back to him all at once, and he became painfully aware of the sensation of something warm, wet and thick sliding down his cheek. His eyes widened as he reached up and scooped the gunk off his face. He nearly vomited into his own hand when he saw that what he was holding was brain matter. Marlowe's brain matter.

He dropped it on the floor and tried to scramble backwards, slipping and nearly wiping out on the large pool of blood. He managed to catch himself on the desk, and began to wipe frantically at his face. The room suddenly became too bright and too loud. He needed to get _free_.

Baird pushed passed Carmona, slipping again in the cooling mess on the floor, and gave what used to be Marlowe as wide a berth as he could. He retreated to an adjoining room that was being used as storage for the crates that had been strewn around the island, and shut the door.

He sat gratefully on one of the wooden boxes, and shook so hard his teeth began to chatter. His guilt choked him, wedged itself in his throat and started expanding. His breaths came in sharp gasps that sounded closer to dry sobs than normal breathing.

Baird stood and began to pace the room. He needed to calm down, he knew. Marcus would be there soon, and he didn't want him to see him this way -– he couldn't afford to give the older man any more ammo that could be used against him. Marcus was already suspicious that he was hiding something from him. No need to go and prove him right.


	7. All the King's Men

**Author's Note: Okay, my lovelies, this is technically part two of chapter six. It was split because 17k+ words in one chapter would have been cruel. So, read this as if it ran directly from the last chapter, because it starts maybe five minutes from 'All the King's Horses' ending. Enjoy! And, if you find yourself with a few extra minutes, why dontcha leave a review?**

* * *

><p>Baird surfaced sluggishly from his trance when footsteps approached the room he was hiding in. He was grateful but also distantly bewildered that no one had come chasing after him when he fled Marlowe's twitching corpse. No one had come when he had coughed violently during his subsequent dry-heaving, either. His abdomen ached with the exertion, and his heart continued to race like he was running a marathon. He was vaguely aware that he'd sustained a deep cut on his hand from the rough wood of the crate from when he had first sequestered himself in here, but oddly, though it bled, it didn't hurt.<p>

He strained to place the identity of the two voices. One was clearly Marcus; he'd never be able to scrape the gravel of Marcus' voice from his eardrums. The other, though...Baird could just pick out a lilt in the other man's voice, the heavy accent on the R's-the calling card of a native Sarfuthian, and no one else on his squad hailed from that distant nation except for Carmona. And Baird was pretty sure that Carmona had heard more than just the gunshot.

Baird groaned and shut his eyes, but Marlowe was waiting for him behind his eyelids._ "You forced my hand, Baird. I can't stay here and I can't leave. This is my only way out."_

He took a shaky breath and resumed his pacing. How much to tell Marcus? He knew he couldn't tell Fenix exactly what Marlowe had said, what he had...accused Baird of doing; there were already too many people who were interlopers in his private affairs.

A shiver racked his body as he strove to formulate a story that would satisfy Marcus. But his brain wasn't cooperating.

_-Ok, look, Marcus is going to know you took this poorly. That it's clearly your fault that Marlowe offed himself._

_-No, he doesn't know what Marlowe said. Just say that he came in, deranged, and gabbled at me before, before-_

_-No, idiot! He turned his back on you before giving you front row seats to the gun show-anyone could tell from the monstrous exit wound that he intended to blast me with his-_

_-If you can just calm the _fuck _down, you can get through this. Marcus will know that you're fucked up over it, but that's normal, right?_

_-Calm down? Right. I'm shaking like a leaf in my bloody boots. And it's _not_ normal-you were covered in Lowery's life blood days ago, and could have sat down to a state dinner afterwards._

"Oh, God," Baird groaned, halting the argument warring in his head.

"Hey, Baird," Marcus called quietly, rapping a knuckle on the door as he entered. _So much for preparing._

Baird braced himself for the analytical powerhouse that was Marcus Fenix, and hoped his half-assed rehearsal would pull him through the interrogation. When Marcus made eye contact, Baird felt his confidence desert him at a run, tail between its legs. He endured the Sergeant's gaze as Marcus scanned him from head to toe with those blue ice chip eyes. Baird felt his stomach crash into his knees when Marcus craned his head forward, focused on Baird's arm.

_Oh, right. The cut. Whoops._

"Stupid crate scratched me," Baird said quickly, rubbing the wound like it was just a paper cut, marveling in the extreme disconnect between his brain and his senses when he failed to receive any pain signals.

Marcus dropped his chin and gave Baird a measured look, trying to gauge how truthful he was being. His head engineer had taken a turn for the strange lately, and the cooling gore in the other room was horrific, even for a soldier's standards.

"Are you ok, Baird?" It was the gentlest tone Marcus had ever used with him, and he was sorely tempted to blurt out everything that had happened.

_-Here's your chance. Just tell him what Marlowe said. Then you don't have to keep it a secret._

_-No. No, I can't stand for anyone else to know what Marlowe said, how right he was. About me._

"I'm, uh, peachy," he said, his heart beginning to pound again as he sailed right past his last chance to unburden himself.

"Take a deep breath, Baird. Now, what happened?" Marcus asked in a matter-of-fact tone. His apparent serenity with one of 'his' Gears blowing his head off was Baird's first clue that Marcus didn't suspect anything out of the ordinary on Baird's end. _Nothing to see, here. Just a crazy guy who spouted one too many deep, dark personal truths about yours truly before he showed me the inside of his head._

"Marlowe caught me by surprise after the other engineers left. He said he couldn't leave the island, but he couldn't stay here either, so the, um, suicide was his only option." _There, see? You kinda told the truth._ Baird wanted to hit fast-forward and skip this conversation. The shock was wearing off, leaving him with a terrible fucking headache.

"Carmona said he was in the external storage, and came back in to grab his notes when heard Marlowe talking to you. What was he saying?"

"He didn't say much. Just barged in here clutching his gun, eyes full of crazy."

"Carmona was saying something different," Marcus said slowly, and Baird could practically see the two sides of the story being knit together in his head.

" 'Course he was. Everyone's got an opinion when the rumor mill starts grinding."

"Baird...I just...Are you leaving anything out?"

Marcus' gentle gruffness drove Baird over the edge in an instant. "I already told you what happened, for fuck's sake. How many more times do I have to rehash that the goddamn idiot used me for a canvas?" Baird shouted.

"Why are you so fucking difficult lately? Why the smoke and mirrors?" Marcus shouted back, incensed.

"Smoke and mirrors," Baird mimicked nastily. "Is that the breadth of your creativity? Cliches?"

Marcus bared his teeth and growled with suppressed rage. "I know what you're doing. You think you're _so _clever, like no one else before you has ever mastered being a deflective dick."

"I've just got that flair," Baird answered.

"Maybe...If you could tell a convincing lie for once in your life."

Baird gritted his teeth together and bit back his retort. Marcus was now baiting him._ Turnabout's fair play. Now who's using cliches?_

"You're _painting _a very different picture from the other accounts," Marcus continued. "And I don't understand this...deflection. What? Did you murder him or something? Did he use the wrong tool, the wrong kind of screw and you lost your head and blew out his?"

Baird was arrested by a blinding wall of rage that temporarily rendered him speechless. "I'm a fucking murderer now? Fucking hell, Marcus, I'm not your dad."

Marcus didn't bat an eye. "That one's getting so much mileage these days that it's losing it's charm. And you accuse _me_ of cliches?"

"I-I didn't kill him, alright?" Instantly, Baird felt his anger begin to deflate. If Marcus only knew the truth...but he couldn't tell him, not now. _And no one will ever know except me and Marlowe._

"Of course you didn't, stupid. But you're avoiding the issue. Why?"

The images came back to him, the detached way he curiously noticed that the melange of brain, blood, and bone formed a sort of multi-hued, gory halo around Marlowe's neck. His heart seized viciously, catching him completely unawares. He doubled over with a cry of pain, his goggles slipping through his hair and hitting the ground with a wet smack, biological detritus flying in all directions. He was confronted with the spattered fabric of his cargoes, the stench a mix of tangy blood and gamey organs that lodged at the back of his throat and crouched on his tongue.

He reeled away from the memory, shooting up so quickly that he overbalanced and nearly fell over. He realized, distantly, that he was breathing way too fast, but none of the air was reaching his head. His heart continued to race.

"Baird?" Marcus' tone was still hard, but now edged with the slightest hint of concern.

He whirled away from Marcus, knowing that he was completely an open book right now. He couldn't even begin to focus on controlling his actions-he was a fucking mess.

"Are you hyperventilating?" Marcus asked in disbelief. "Shit."

"Yeah, that's making me feel better," he managed to wheeze sarcastically.

Baird reached out to steady himself on one of the empty crates as his head swam. A hot sweat broke out all over body and promptly chilled in the cool interior room. His vision narrowed suddenly, and he shut his eyes against the throbbing waves making the room undulate. _Can you stop the room, please? I'd like to get off._

He sensed Marcus come up behind him, and the heavy weight of his hand descended between Baird's shoulder blades. He was forcibly reminded of the time his father had stood over him in the same way, watching Baird puke his guts up after a high school party his parents had _made _ him attend, because they wanted to make a good impression on the kid's parents.

"Just calm down, Baird. Calm down," Marcus was saying over and over. He gripped Baird's upper arm, ignoring the gore, and maneuvered him into a sitting position on the crate.

Baird made to drop his head in his hands, but recoiled violently when he touched the sharp, sticky mass coating his hair. His vision narrowed again, comically, and he looked at Marcus through a tunnel. Marcus was still speaking, but he sounded distant. The older man was blinking rapidly, his free hand furiously clenching and un-clenching. Baird was mesmerized by it.

"Everything will be fine. You've seen this before. It's no different from any of the other deaths you've seen," Marcus was saying, unable to hide how freaked out he was becoming. Baird's behavior over the past few weeks had been unusual, but _this _was completely off the rails.

_Yeah, no different,_ Baird thought, strangely giddy. He heard hysterical, high-pitched laughter, and it took him several, agonizing seconds to realize that it was coming from his own mouth.

Marcus' eyes widened and he stopped talking. He stared at Baird, an expression of utter confusion on his features, his mouth slightly open.

"Did I miss something?" he asked stupidly. Baird only laughed harder. Marcus threw him one more searching look before crossing the room and closing the heavy door. He marched back over to the engineer and resumed his grip on the blonde's shoulder.

"Baird, enough of this shit. You need to tell me what really happened. Marlowe said something to you. What was it?" Marcus' expression rose and fell, irritation fighting with worry.

The ache in the aftermath of every beat of his heart hammered at Baird's senses. He squeezed his chest uselessly, trying to constrict his heart, each breath alternating between a laugh and a wheeze of pain. Dumbly, he looked down at the hand gripping his shoulder, the blood on Marcus' palm, all the reds, purples, and pinks on his civvies...

Marcus smacked his cheek a few times, drawing his scattered attention. He had the light of a dawning realization in his eyes. "Baird, are you hurt? Did Marlowe-" He angled Baird back by his shoulder and started to pat him down roughly.

Baird came to his senses enough to push Marcus away, weakly. The laughter subsided to an occasional bubble in his chest. Marcus batted away his hand and tried to resume his search, but Baird turned away, tried to yank his arm from Marcus' grip.

"Goddamnit, Baird, I need answers. Answer me!" Marcus roared, finally out of patience. "Stop being a child!"

The sound of Baird's ragged breathing filled the room. Marcus relinquished his grip, and Baird sagged backwards onto his elbows, not caring how vulnerable he looked just then.

"You'd better not be injured," he warned. "I'm going to facilitate the...clean-up, give you some time to pull your shit together." He gave Baird a searing stare. "You are going to stay right the fuck here until I get back, understood? That's an _order._"

* * *

><p>Baird moved quickly through the throngs of people that barred his way to the elevators. Although his eyes were glued to the floor, he could feel the lingering stares of everyone he passed by. Azura was just one great big gossip grapevine, and word had already gotten around about Marlowe. And him.<p>

He knew he was a grisly sight; his whole person was dotted with dark red splotches of blood, and a swatch of his pale blonde hair was stained crimson and clumped with bits of what used to be Marlowe's head. Internally, Baird was walking along a fine line; on one side was a growing hysteria, fueled by a hundred different things, and on the other was a frightening, all-consuming numbness. He was aware that a bubble of madness had settled into his chest, ready to spring out and overtake him at the slightest show of weakness, the briefest lapse in vigilance. His vision narrowed and widened at random intervals, putting a disconcerting sway in his step.

After he'd shrugged off Marcus' command for him to stay in the workshop, he'd slipped into the packhorse he'd claimed for himself and retreated to the hotel as carefully as his badly shaking hands would allow. He'd finally begun to register the throbbing pain of the gash on his hand, though the bleeding had finally stopped. Baird had noticed the oozing blood when the steering wheel began to glisten with it, and had thoughtlessly pressed his hand into his shirt to stem the bleeding. He nearly had a heart attack when he remembered, moments later, that his shirt was saturated in Marlowe's blood; he was so badly shaken that he'd had to pull over and mash his uninjured hand to his mouth to stave off the scream trying to force its way out of his throat.

Even now, his heart beat out an erratic rhythm, and every shallow breath was a pain to draw in. He was hyper-aware of the unsubtle whispers that chased him like phantoms, and steeled himself against them. Once again, he was the center of attention and he hated it – it was too much pressure. A briny taste rose up at the back of his throat as his stomach tried its best to tie itself into a stopper knot. Baird struggled with his gag reflex and fought to avoid vomiting what little food he'd eaten in the last two days all over the embellished marble floors; he'd already been reduced to a blood splattered spectacle: he'd do anything to deflect any more unwanted attention.

He pulled up short when a body blocked his path. Corporal Janis, someone he knew only in the sense that he was aware of the man's existence.

"Oh, fuck! It's true, then." The dark-skinned man scanned his eyes over Damon. "You look like shit. There's blood everywhere!"

"Move," Damon growled. A crowd had started to form, each person wanting more information about what had happened in the workshop. His heart leaped into his throat when he realized that he was at the center of a circle of people, each trying to get a look at him as if he was some shiny, new toy.

"What happened? Why'd he do it?" The questions swirled around Damon, ratcheting up his agitation. He could hear Marlowe's accusing words – telling him that everything was his fault, telling him that the younger man's blood was on his hands.

"Get the fuck out of my way!" Even Damon heard the note of hysteria in his voice.

He pushed through the startled crowd, strong-arming his way through the group and moving quickly to the lift bank. He pressed desperately at the call button and leaned his head against the wall. He felt the crowds gaze like laser sights on his back, and forced himself not to turn around. He didn't have the energy to deal with anything or anyone. He knew he was at the end of his badly frayed rope, and one more intrusion was going to make him flip out; his hold on his shredded composure was tenuous at best.

Damon hated that the kid's suicide was hitting him so hard. He'd seen and done awful things in his lifetime – things he never wanted to talk about, things that made him question his status as one of the good guys. But he'd never been so thoroughly gutted by any of them. He'd been covered in someone else's blood before, too. He'd been soaked in blood from head to toe, and he had been able to shake it off afterwards. The difference, he guessed, was that he'd never been _blamed_ before, never had his own careless, cynical words echoed back at him as evidence of his severely lacking capacity for common compassion. He had always been assured that whatever terrible thing he was doing was the 'right' thing. He'd never had the burden of death placed on his shoulders, and he was finding that it was more than he could bear.

The elevator's bell chimed and he gratefully entered one of the slow-moving lifts, studiously keeping his eyes downcast. The bronze panels and railings were polished to a high sheen, and he could see his burnished reflection in them-something he desperately wanted to steer clear of. The skin of his cheek pulled against the dried gore as his lips shifted into a deep frown. Damon's mouth flooded with saliva at the mental image he conjured of himself. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the dark picture. He could feel his temperature rising as he got more and more agitated, and started taking in measured breaths to stave off the impending panic attack.

_Been there, done that. Not again. _

The air he breathed in was tainted with the smell of freshly-spilled blood. Damon imagined the air suffusing with a red mist that curled around him like a poisonous snake. He choked on his next deep inhalation and gagged. Damon grabbed at the railing in a near panic, gripping it like a lifeline. The slight pain of the sharp edges digging into his hands helped ground him in reality.

_Stop it, you're freaking yourself out. Stop. _

He shut his eyes with a quiet, distressed bleat, and willed the lift to move faster and allow him to reach a haven sooner rather than later. His mind used the blackness as a backdrop to replay the slow-motion image of Marlowe's head exploding like a melon, sending a fountain of sanguine fluid spraying into the air over and over. The arrival bell startled Baird from his macabre ruminations, and he rushed through the sliding doors.

He'd begun to scratch at the red flecks on his arm, his flesh turning a bright pink. He knew that his control was beginning to unravel and he quickened his pace. The hallway seemed to go on forever, and his breathing was coming in strangled pants. He was ready to throw his pride by the wayside and sprint for his door, but he was afraid of what the exertion might do to his already-speeding heart rate.

"Damon!"

He jerked his head up and saw Sam rushing towards him, concern written all over her face.

"I heard what happened with Marlowe and came to look for you..." she trailed off when Damon ignored her words and skirted around her to his door. He reached into his pockets and pulled out his room key. He labored to undo the lock, but his tremulous hand kept him from sliding the card correctly.

He hadn't noticed that Sam was standing at his shoulder, watching, until she took the key from him and unlocked the door herself. Damon could feel her gaze on him as if it were a tangible thing, and began to pray for her departure. She was expecting something from him – answers, he guessed. He didn't want to deal with her right now. He _couldn't_; there was no way he could give her what she wanted without completely losing his shit.

Damon scurried into his room like a frightened rabbit escaping a predator, not caring that Sam followed him in with a fretful expression. He started stripping the ruined clothes from his body - stopping only to unlace and remove his combat boots - and made haste towards the bathroom. He pushed open the door and flicked on the effulgent light.

He froze when he caught a look at his appearance in the mirror over the sink. He looked worse than he thought. His eyes were riveted on his face and hair, where he could easily identify chunks of brain matter and slivers of fragmented bone. Blood had seeped through the fabric of his shirt and left faint, red brands on his chest and stomach. He stared at himself, clad only in COG issue black undergarments, taking a mental picture of the way Marlowe's life blood marred his flesh like a twisted stigmata.

_This is your fault._

Marlowe's voice stabbed at him again, salting the burning wound. Damon knew he'd never forget the hopeless look in the young man's eyes; he knew he'd carry the weight of his death until his last breath.

The blonde pushed back from the counter and dragged air into his aching lungs. He staggered over to the combination shower and bath, twisted the knob for hot water, and lifted the lever to send the water raining down from the chrome shower head. Damon scrambled over the shin-high lip of the porcelain tub, and crumpled into a ball under the blistering spray. His growing hysteria had deflated into a sudden paralysis; the need to remove any evidence of Marlowe's death had been erased as if he'd received a dose of anesthesia.

He distantly heard a heavy clunk, followed by whispers of fabric hitting the ceramic tiled floor, but paid them no attention. He started when he felt cool hands on his back and the press of a body to his. He didn't lift his head when Sam winced and reached over him to lessen the boiling temperature of the water.

She whispered his name in his ear, but he didn't respond – his forehead stayed pressed into his knees as the warm water washed over him and - now stained a sickening pink - raced towards the drain. Sam settled behind him, stretching a leg onto either side and wrapping an arm around his chest. He could feel the pressure of her pulling him back towards her, but he resisted.

"It's okay. Trust me," she said quietly and pulled at him again.

This time, Damon let her shift him against her; the saturated fabric of her bra scratched at him as she adjusted his position. He numbly watched her reach out, grab the bar of carbolic soap, and lather both of her hands. He clenched his eyes shut as she massaged the soap over the skin of his face, chest and arms. She used a wet washcloth to help rinse away the foam before washing his body a second time. Damon watched, detached, as the remnants of this night's horror were washed away, and his skin, flushed from the heat and Sam's thorough scrubbing, returned to normal.

The bathroom was silent except for their breathing: hers-steady, and his-shallow and erratic , with the splash of water in the basin in the background.

Damon allowed himself to relax into her, but clenched his eyes firmly shut. He could feel them stinging with tears that he didn't want her to see. He knew she would write them off as running droplets from the shower, but he hid them all the same. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and he found himself counting each inhale and exhale. He matched his breathing to hers, and his muscles loosened up further as the pressure in his chest eased. Damon reached out and clutched her calf, taking comfort in the skin-to-skin contact.

Sam placed the soap back in its dish and grabbed the combination shampoo and conditioner from the corner of the ledge where he'd left it, and poured a large dollop of the unscented gel into her hand. Damon shuddered when she ran her fingers through his hair, working at the solidified clump of bone and blood that had cemented the blonde strands together.

She gently pried the mass apart and scrubbed at the stain, leaving his hair a pale roseate color. Once she'd washed away the offending lather, she wrapped her arms around him again and pressed her face into his neck.

"I'm so sorry. It'll be alright," Sam whispered to him again and again, like a mantra.

Damon finally allowed himself to react to her touch, and grasped her hands in his. He pressed them to his face like a mask, something he could hide behind and lose himself in.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"I don't know. Everything?" At that moment, he felt like a criminal. He felt like he had to ask forgiveness for everything he'd ever done in his life. He clenched his teeth against a rush of confessions – none of which had anything to do with poor, dead Marlowe.

"Damon - "

"He told me it was my fault. He said I caused all of this, that eating a bullet was his only way out because of something _I_ had done," he spat out bitterly. "He told me that I didn't care about anyone, that _I_ should be the one who's dead."

He felt more than heard Sam's quick intake of breath.

"He's wrong," she said simply, pressing more firmly into him.

"You're sure? Because I'm not," Damon shrugged and let her hands fall from his face. "Maybe he_ is_ right. He didn't tell me anything that wasn't true. I _did_ let the Hybrids out, so maybe I _am_ to blame."

"No, you're _not_!" she exclaimed urgently. "Those things already had a way out of the lab; that's how Reeves was attacked - and if we're going to toss around blame, how about we lay some with the idiots who _created_ those abominations."

Damon only shook his head and shivered under the cooling fall of water. He doubted that everyone thought the way Sam thought – and he doubted that Marlowe was the only one who held him responsible.

Sam stood and stepped over the lip of the tub onto the dry rug.

"Come on, get up."

Damon turned his head marginally, and gave her a baleful stare.

"Damon, the water is freezing," she stated, the knobs squeaking as she turned the shower off. "Come on, we need to get you into something dry."

Damon allowed her to pull him from the tub, barely reacting when she pressed a dry towel into his hands. He caught the scared, concerned look she was giving him and, while it pulled at his heart, he couldn't muster up the energy to do anything about it. He suddenly felt very heavy and tired. At that moment, he figured he could sleep for days. Part of him hoped that if he just slept, then when he woke up, bits of Marlowe's skull wouldn't be embedded in the wall of his workshop, he wouldn't have a snarling Marcus Fenix breathing down his neck, he wouldn't have assaulted the Gorasni and he wouldn't feel like his world was imploding.

Damon huffed a mirthless laugh and frowned. _Yeah, that'll happen, idiot._

He changed into the clothes that Sam gave him and slowly made his way to his bed. He felt like an old man who'd reached the end of his time, like he could drown in his troubles if he wanted to. Sam pulled him over to his desk chair where she'd flipped open his first-aid kit. He sat quietly as she nursed his hand, cleaning and binding the cut across his palm. She darted worried glances at his face, but didn't ask any questions.

Baird was grateful for the reprieve from being bombarded with demands for information – he'd have to thank her for not foisting her curiosity upon his overburdened shoulders. Sam pulled him from the chair and towards his bed, telling him to get some rest. He noticed that she stood by the post of the bed frame, watching him carefully as he trudged onward. She'd changed back into the clothes she'd been wearing earlier, sans soaked underwear, which she'd stuffed into his hamper to retrieve later. He opened his mouth to thank her for staying with him when a loud, furious banging came at his door.

"Baird! You better fucking be in there!"

It was Marcus. Baird groaned and sank into the soft mattress. He knew the Sergeant would be livid with him; first, for dodging questions about his arrhythmia and, second, for disobeying his direct order to stay in the workshop until he got back. He sent Sam a pleading look, for once, wanting someone else to fight his battle – he simply didn't have the energy.

Sam nodded and went to answer the door.

"Marcus –"she cut herself off when he pushed past her and into Damon's room, followed closely by an angry-looking Cole.

The two men headed straightaway to Damon, ignoring Sam and wearing identical looks of vexation. They towered over him where he sat, triggering his fight or flight response. Part of Damon was offended by their behavior and wanted to stand toe to toe with them and ask them who the _fuck_ they thought they were, but a rarely-seen, runty, meek part of his personality had a firm grip on him, and he only averted his eyes. Even so, he could feel himself waffling between rage and detachment.

"Didn't I tell you, _specifically_, to stay where you _fucking were_?" Marcus ground out.

"I thought it was optional," Damon answered, not making eye contact.

He heard Marcus blow out an angry breath, and watched as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

"Really? What part of 'stay the fuck here' sounded optional to you?"

The older man's voice had taken on a taunting tone, making Damon bristle with irritation.

"How about the part where you're not my fucking boss?"

Marcus' pale blue eyes narrowed dangerously, and his lips pursed together so tightly that they turned white.

"Wrong again. Funnily enough, I'm your fucking _commanding officer_." Marcus crossed him arms and gave him a feigned look of curiosity. "So, what, disobeying direct orders and lying are just all in a day's work for you?"

The blonde stood up, then, making Marcus retreat a step to avoid banging chests with him.

"That shit doesn't matter anymore, Fenix. The COG is _dead_."

Damon moved away from the triangle of tension he was trapped in and turned his back on the angry duo.

"Fine. Then why don't you take your ass off to the Gorasni ship and see if Trescu will let you join up? You saw how well _he_ responded when he just _thought_ you were lying." Marcus' face twisted into an ugly scowl. "That is, if the walk isn't too much of a strain on your girlish heart."

Damon felt his hackles jump to attention at the older man's words; the unfairness of them beating on his temper like a drum. He spun back to the Sergeant with wild, frustrated eyes.

"I don't even get why you're so mad, or, for that matter, why you thought it was okay for you to barge into my room and start yelling at me over something that isn't even a big deal!"

Damon could feel his skin tingling as he got more and more angry at the intrusion. His chest swelled with injured pride, and his fury worked itself into an explosive froth that he couldn't wait to unleash. Damon could feel the irregular _thump, thump_ of his heart as it went into overdrive.

"We're mad because you _lied_," Cole roared.

He hadn't spoken since he'd come into the room, happy to allow Marcus to berate Damon to his heart's content, but hearing Damon blowing off the situation was too much.

The wind went out of Damon's sails when his best friend spoke up. Cole never yelled at him. _Ever._ And hearing it now was a slap in the face. There were very few things that gave Damon pause, but knowing that he'd pissed Cole off was at the top of that list.

"I didn't lie," Damon hedged, the last word exiting with a gasp as the stress of the situation sent his heart racing. He hunched over slightly, trying to relieve the stab of pain he felt, and pressed his hands to his side to keep himself from grabbing at his chest.

Marcus scoffed at his words and pushed him back towards the bed.

"Sit down before you fall down, asshole."

Damon took his advice and gingerly sat down, his eyes still on Cole. The other man's eyes were cold and angry, nothing like his usual expression. His fierce gaze pierced Damon's skin like silver bullets, and he scrambled to try and fix the rift.

"I _didn't_ lie, Cole," Damon said again. "I didn't say anything because it wasn't a big deal. It still isn't."

Cole's expression went from infuriated to disbelieving and back again.

"Lying by omission is still _lying_, Baird," Cole bit out. "Stop arguing semantics."

Damon stared resolutely at his bare feet and didn't respond. He was vaguely aware that the pounding in his chest was complimented by a throb in his gut; he felt like his seams were ripping apart.

"I don't get it, Baird. These aren't the kinds of secrets you keep," Cole raged before throwing his hands up. "Ok, fine, you've got trust issues, fine. You don't want to tell us that you've got a condition that could _potentially kill you_, that's your business, but the least you could do is try to take better care of yourself."

Cole moved over to Damon's desk where a pyramid of coffee mugs was stacked against the wall and plucked one off the top.

"You drink coffee like it's going out of style," he snarled, shaking the mug in Damon's direction before slamming it back on the desk." You don't sleep, you hardly eat, and now that everything is out in the open and we've seen how badly it can affect you, you want to act like it's _nothing_?"

Cole moved back to Damon, leaning down and invading his space.

"Are you _trying_ to kill yourself? Is that it?"

The blonde physically recoiled at the statement, his face going even paler than it already was.

"Cole, maybe you should –"Sam spoke up from behind the angry duo, trying to take some of the heat off of Damon.

Marcus whirled on her and stalked the few steps to where she was standing, not pushing into her personal space, but close enough to be intimidating.

"Maybe _you_ should stay out of this, Byrne, " he said coldly, and marched back to his spot.

"No, you know what? I'm done," Cole said finally. "I shouldn't have to be in here yelling at you over this _bullshit_. If you don't care, then I don't care. This is a waste of energy."

The Thrashballer slapped Marcus on the arm and gestured to the door. As the two of them exited, he turned to Sam, whose face still showed the hurt shock of being so brutally rebuffed.

"You stay with him. He _obviously_ can't be trust with his own well-being."

"Cole," Damon tried.

"I don't want to hear one damned thing from you unless it's 'I'm sorry for lying and scaring the fuck out of everyone.'."

Damon jerked when the door slammed shut and blew out a heavy breath. He slumped and let himself collapse backwards onto the soft duvet.

"_Fuck_."

* * *

><p>"Cole, I can't - I can't-" Marcus choked on his words, and he shook with so much compressed anger that Cole was afraid he would have an aneurysm or smash the chair back he was holding in half.<p>

"I hear ya, Marcus," Cole said in a reassuring tone, knowing better than to touch Marcus when his dander was up.

"That stupid little blonde asshole, keeping shit like this to himself."

Cole sighed and replayed the events over in his head. "That's Damon. My momma, if she would have met him, would have said to me 'Gus, still waters run deep with that boy'." _And she would have said the same about you, Marcus._

Marcus gave him a piercing look, but Cole just waited. Marcus would eventually find the words.

"He can't - nothing can happen to him."

_Ah. There it was. _Sometimes Marcus' humanity surprised him. He chastised himself for even thinking that, but it was true. "Nothing's going to happen to him. We'll make sure of that. He's goin' through a little rough patch right now."

"Uh, understatement of the year?" Marcus said, his humorless eyes boring into Cole. He suddenly seized the adjacent chair, upholstered in a rich, red brocade, and hurled it several feet down the hallway. Marcus watched the chair spiral through the air and smash against the carpet with the sound of a bullet storm, wood flying up and down the hallway.

"I'd give that an eight, just for distance," Cole said, taking Marcus's violent display in stride. "I'd of given it a ten if you'd managed to chuck it through the window, there, in one piece."

Marcus gave him a withering look that _so_ encompassed how they felt about Damon just then that Cole burst out laughing, even though he didn't think any of it was remotely funny.

"Marcus, man, most dudes blow off steam by punching a wall or going radio silent."

"Call me an artist," Marcus drawled sardonically.

"So...what are we going to do about Damon?" he asked after a few moments, trusting that the small bit of levity was enough to restore cooler heads for the both of them. He was still _damn_ angry at Damon; hell, it even hurt his feelings a bit. But like every other wave that beat against his proverbial rock, his searing anger was already waning, smoothing, turning into a much more useful tool: motivation.

"I don't know," Marcus grumbled, collapsing into the other wingback chair and holding his head in his hands. "This is too much to process." He gestured at himself, suddenly. "I'm out of my depth, here."

"Mmhmm." Cole sympathized with the man; Marcus was just as emotionally-stunted as Baird. _And here I am, caught in the middle. _"Sam's with him now, but what about tomorrow? This kid's death is hittin' him pretty hard. Did you get out of him what the kid actually said?"

Marcus shook his head. "He was...evasive, squirrely. And he had a panic attack during the debriefing."

Cole mentally sighed for the hundredth time.

"Maybe he'll tell Sam what he wouldn't tell you," Cole shrugged. "Or me, now that I told him not to talk to me. But even if he tells Sam, and she tells us, how do we know we can trust the information?"

"I was wondering the same thing," Marcus answered, leaning back into his chair. "He's going to do what he can to downplay this whole thing. Especially since he knows we're on to him."

"Well, we're going to have to watch him, then. If he's not going to take care of himself, we'll have to do it for him," Cole answered, his voice steeled with determination. "I'm not going to let his pride be the death of him."

Marcus sent Cole a sly half smile.

"He is not going to like this at all," he stated simply.

"Well, that's really just too damned bad," Cole said lightly. "He should've thought about that before he decided keeping secrets was a smart idea. Damned idiot."

"So, how are we going to play this?" Marcus asked, his brow furrowing in focus.

"We can approach it one of two ways, I think," Cole began. "Either one of us checks in on him during the day, or we rotate keeping him in our sights - literally."

Marcus blew out a breath. "He's going to notice. Won't that just drive him to greater heights of...secrecy and shit?"

Cole gave Marcus a devious smile. "Not if we're _stealthy_."

"Should we get Sam involved? Granted, I kinda fucked that opportunity over," Marcus mused.

"Nah. She's compromised." He shot Marcus a knowing look. "We chatted this morning. She's got Damon wrapped around her finger; she just doesn't know it."

The corner of Marcus' mouth twitched. "Huh. Thought so." A half-smile appeared slowly. "Well, good for Baird. That's _one _thing about him that's taken care of."

"We'll get after him tomorrow morning, then," Cole said, straightening up from the wall and stretching his arms over his head. "Sam is going to be keeping him busy."

Marcus quirked an eyebrow.

Cole chuckled. "Oh, I don't know about all that. But she'll keep him occupied, I mean."

Marcus shook his head and huffed a laugh under his breath. "Ok. I'll trade rotations with someone and stake out Baird's lair until the afternoon."

"Then I'll relieve you until the dinner bell," Cole supplied.

Both men nodded at each other and shook hands on the deal. Marcus stalked down the hallway and around the bend, leaving Cole to his thoughts.

Cole watched Marcus stalk down the hallway, heading to his own room. He heaved a put-upon sigh and melted back into the high-backed chair Marcus had just vacated. Today had been a seriously fucked-up day – at least a ten on the 'fucked-up day' scale. When Marcus had called him down with some cryptic request for 'helping him deal with Baird', he hadn't been quite sure what to think. But, after he'd rushed over and Marcus had told him what happened, and how Baird reacted, he'd felt a cold wave wash over his guts, like he'd downed a gallon of ice water.

If he was honest, he could admit that he and Marcus were overreacting. They didn't _really_ have to watch Baird's every step, or monitor him like a criminal, or worse, a suicide risk, and six or seven months ago, they wouldn't have. But both men were painfully aware of their mortality – Dom's death had driven that point home. They'd already lost one brother – losing another _was not_ an option.

Cole hadn't had any brothers or sisters, but he figured that being someone's older sibling – biologically or not – afforded certain liberties, and he and Marcus were about to cash in a few. The surly, youngest brother was wigging the fuck out and blazing a path towards self-destruction, so now it was up to the two eldest to reel him back in, regardless of whether he liked it or not.

He nodded to himself, feeling sure of their decision. _No more deaths in the family_, he thought. _Not until we're all old and gray with a hundred grandchildren climbing all over us._

A great yawn split his jaws and reminded him of how exhausted he was. He stood and stretched out his tense muscles before making his way to his own bed.

* * *

><p>"Holy hell, what the fuck was <em>that<em>?"

Sam sat on her knees beside Damon on the bed, keeping her voice low lest she invite another barrage from the two-man wrecking crew.

"A dressing-down, Delta style," he answered tiredly. "Unfortunately, being a member of the team makes them feel like they have unconditional authority over you – an open invitation into your business. That's how it's always been."

"Mm," Sam hummed. "Squad dynamics. They make the world go 'round."

Damon scoffed and covered his eyes with his forearm.

"My head hurts," he whispered.

Sam shifted to sit behind him and pillowed his head in her thigh. He sighed when she carded her fingers through his damp hair and massaged his temples.

"Why _didn't_ you say anything about your condition?"

"I don't have a condition! I swear, I already had this conversation with Marcus," he opened his eyes and looked up at her. "It's just _stress_. I haven't had these kinds of attacks since I was a kid. There wasn't anything to tell."

Sam shrugged and raised her eyebrows.

"Marcus and Cole seem to disagree," she said, playing the devil's advocate.

"Well, they aren't exactly being sensible about it, are they? Cole's mad that I didn't wax poetically to him about it and Marcus is... he's still freaked out about Dom, and he's taking it out on me."

"They just care about you, Damon. You shouldn't discount that," Sam said quietly.

"I know..." Damon relented, knowing she was right. "And, I'm not discounting it. I just wish they'd let me handle it on my own."

Sam's massage slowed to a caress as she watched Damon's face. She could tell what he was thinking from his expression; everything that crossed his mind danced across his face. She didn't tell him what she thought of his ability to 'handle it' – she knew it wouldn't be fair. She'd never seen him so vulnerable, and knocking him when he was so obviously distraught over Marcus and Cole's anger would be needlessly mean.

"Cole's never yelled at me before, you know? Not like that."

He shot her an unsure look from his place on her lap.

"I feel like I fucked everything up and I don't know how to fix it." He vented a mocking snicker. "I'm an engineer and I don't know how to fix what I've broken."

Sam leaned down and kissed his forehead in sympathy.

"You'll figure it out. He's just mad right now. It'll be better once you two hash it out."

Damon looked at her with unreadable, exhausted eyes.

"I'm tired, Sam," he said. "I'm just... I'm tired."

He lifted himself from her lap and shifted around on the mattress, pulling back the bed clothes. He looked to Sam and paused, giving her a considering look.

"Do you want to stay here?" He looked away and cleared his throat. "_Would_ you stay here? With me?"

Sam shot him a sweet smile and draped an arm over him.

"Are you sure? Last time the two of us got near a bed..." she trailed off, letting Damon conjure the memory himself.

One side of his mouth quirked up into a smirk, briefly, before sliding back into a tired grimace.

"I don't think that's going to be an issue." He gave Sam a sideways look. "So, will you stay?"

"Silly boy," she breathed out. "Of course."

Damon gave her the ghost of tired smile and slipped under his covers. There was no hesitation on Sam's part as she scooted in close to him and laid her head on his chest. She lay still for a moment, and then propped her chin up on his collarbone.

"It really will be ok," she said, assuredly. "I promise."

"Yeah, it'll all look better in the morning, right?"

He reached out and turned off the amber light of the bedside lamp and settled onto his side, facing Sam. He stretched towards her to offer up an affectionate peck before giving in to his leadened eyelids, and let them slip shut.


	8. Slow Burn

**Author's Note**: Sorry for the massive delay ladies and gents. Real life has a way of taking over, but things are back on track now and regular updating should commence. Also, if you have time, leave a review. It really helps keep the ideas churning. Without feedback, it's hard to keep up the enthusiasm for writing this. Lastly, thanks to everyone who's still reading, hopefully this chapter is up to snuff.

KW

* * *

><p>"This is an exercise in futility. And a <em>total<em> disregard for boundaries. I didn't have you pegged for the nurturing type, Marcus, though 'smothering' may be a touch more accurate. I guess the gesture is kind of nice-if you can call oppressive surveillance a 'positive' thing."

Baird paused in his complaints, giving Marcus time to respond. Both men had dropped to the rear of their oceanfront patrol group. It was dusk, and in scarcely 30 minutes, the island would be plunged into the thick darkness that was only broken by the artificial lights. Even now, the lamps near the docks began to flicker on with fitful, staticky bursts of energy.

"You done yet?" Marcus said.

"Nope," Baird said. "I'm chock-full of bitching about our current totalitarian regime that affords you the power to hold my head under the water while you rifle through my pockets. You know, I may just go and spite you all by locking myself in the ATV bay and inhaling the fumes." Baird glanced away, and took in the way the sunset reflected upon the roiling waves, a shining, wavering tapestry of pinks and oranges. He stared down at the stone walkway, then darted a glance at Marcus.

Marcus was giving him a dark, under-eyed look. "Really? You're mad about a situation _you_ created, and now you're flippant about it?" They walked in silence for a few moments. "There aren't any straightjackets here, so try to forgive me in the future if I jump the gun and ask Hayman to drug you."

"Ok, ok, Christ," Baird relented irritatedly. Marlowe flashed unpleasantly in his mind's eye, reminding him that he was probably trying too hard to evade the obvious. He blew out the breath he'd been holding in and scowled at Marcus. "Let's face it: I love myself and my work _way_ too much to be divorced from it. And you'd all be screwed without me. If only I could literally _marry_ my work..."

"Wouldn't Sam have a few objections to sharing your bed with a miter saw?"

Baird felt his neck flush, but ignored it. "Hey, you don't get to make jokes like that. I'm still angry at you and your big brother bullshit."

Marcus rolled his eyes. "Feeling's mutual. But I can't just give you the cold shoulder all the time."

"Why not? That's kind of your approach to life."

"_Someone's_ got to be a sounding board for your bitching. Amidst the shit piles are occasional nuggets of worth."

"Oh, thanks, asshole. You're really boosting my self-confidence."

"I aim to please."

Baird bit back a number of retorts, many that involved Anya, and settled on collapsing into a disagreeable silence. But true to form, or perhaps in spite of it, he couldn't stay silent for long.

"How many times do we have to plod the same stretch of godless beach before we remember that the Hybrids escaped from a _laboratory_?"

"It's not just the Hybrids we have to be worried about."

"Oh, c'mon, you don't seriously mean the Locust?" Baird said jokingly. Marcus gave him a meaningful look that deflated his mockery instantly.

"Really? You're still worried about _them?_" He waved a hand in the direction of the building that housed the maelstrom generator. "The Locust are _dead, _Marcus. Your dad certainly saw to that."

"We've thought they were dead before, after Jacinto. It was just a breather before the Lambent."

"Yeah, but to be fair, the Locust ignored us for a while because they had more pressing problems. Like, a gigantic, explodey fist of Glowies pressing on their asshole."

Marcus frowned. "Why do all of your descriptions involve metaphors for rape?"

"You mean you're _not_ afraid of being raped?" Baird said easily. He had finally found a chink in Marcus' stoicism, and wanted to worry at it mercilessly.

Marcus growled disgustedly in his throat. "Just...shut the fuck up, Baird."

For some reason, Baird heeded the viperous tone of Marcus' words and swiveled his gaze back to the ocean.

In the absence of conversation, Marlowe galloped to the forefront of his mind, bringing with him the mini video of his suicide that was on endless repeat behind Baird's eyes. The bullet exploding through his cranium, the marbled maroon fallout splattering on Baird's clothes in a disturbing rendition of modern art. He endeavored to lose his train of thought in the crashing and receding of the waves, but the Marlowe video only slowed down to match the rhythm of the water.

The hysteria that had gripped him in those first few hours afterwards began to surface in his chest, his heart beating faster in warning. He was seized by conflicting desires to unburden himself on Marcus and simultaneously voice the first ugly thought that shot across his brain.

_What am I going to do about it? How can I escape something that was _meant_ for me? Throw any empathy that comes my way back in the face of whoever was stupid enough to share it? Crumble? Resist? There's no one to ask. I made sure of that._

Never before had he felt so paralyzed, so thoroughly trapped. He prided himself on always having an out, always being one step ahead of everyone else. He functioned primarily within the confines of his head, an endless tapestry of a dozen different pursuits and countless questions, analyses, and judgments, all interwoven in shining thread. He reveled in the skills, both positive and negative, that always gave him the edge.

But Marlowe had unexpectedly checked Baird's King before blowing away the chessboard, leaving Baird grasping at old straws that no longer existed.

The line of lamps in front of their patrol waxed and waned suddenly, drawing Baird's attention away from the questionable state of his psyche. The furthest lamp, a mere pinpoint in the growing blackness, shone brightly before being extinguished. The next two lamps behaved the same, and the next two.

"The hell's going on with these lights?" Peterson yelled.

Baird shook his head and started to reply, but the words died on his tongue as he watched a familiar black shape twist up a lamp post about 100 yards away. The lamp light intensified briefly before the Hybrid smashed the bulb. The small crunch of glass was amplified by the acoustics of the docks, and every man's hackles rose instantly, including Baird's.

"So, these guys mess with our electricity. Like eels. Great," he said conversationally to Marcus as he racked his gnasher. Marcus had already switched to his battle mode, thumbing open the flap that covered the extra shells in the bandolier he was wearing. They had only found one small armory, likely for the permanent guard that had been stationed on the island. Baird refused to wear a bandolier on principle; they were clunky and ugly, and always seemed to say more about their wearer than their usefulness.

"Just what we needed," one of the Gears grumbled, training his boltok on the broken lamp.

The rest of the lamps followed in quick succession, forcing the men back from the docks and into the maze of small buildings and gardens that ringed the hotel. They formed up around two lamp posts next to a thicket of trees, backs to the poles, guns trained outward. Baird watched in silence as the lamp they'd been standing underneath on the docks went out with an audible crunch.

"What about the other patrols?" A Gear named Royal whispered harshly. As if on cue, screams echoed from the northern side of the beach, a chorus of screeches and hisses interspersed with the horrible cries.

"Why do we conduct these patrols again?" Baird asked seriously, all traces of Marlowe and humor gone. "Seems like we provide a parade of tasty hors d'ouevres every night for our unwanted pests."

"May be some truth to that," Marcus rumbled. "Regardless, let's ice these assholes. We'll have time to chat efficiency later."

_If there is a later,_ Baird thought glumly. Death had flashed her skirts so often that Baird failed to react appropriately most times. Perhaps ennui is what drove soldiers to make fatal mistakes.

Marcus indicated that Royal and Stieg should take point, and that he and Baird would cover the rear. He unclipped his helmet from the hook at his waist and donned it, indicating the others should do the same. Royal motioned for the Gears to move out from the lamps. When they crossed underneath the last lamp and into the long stretch of darkness over the gardens, Marcus whistled the three-note signal, and every man crouched over and broke into a hard run, guns at the ready. The northern side of the beach was just on the other side of the ground level gardens. Royal and Stieg hesitated for only a moment before plowing into the heart of the foliage, making a beeline for the beach.

Even as fear hammered in his temples, Baird chafed at having to wear his helmet. So what if it protected you from a sniper? It blinkered his view and muted his senses. A berserker could storm up behind him, and he'd still be starting dumbly ahead through the plastic lenses. Just when he was about to rip it off and take his chances with the overhead branches and stray bullets, something clamped viselike on his left shoulder, jerking him to a halt.

The fear and hysteria raged in the corner of his head where he had locked them, but the soldier transferred the gnasher fluidly to his other hand and whirled around on locked legs, pushing against his attacker to maneuver it around to the side. He yanked the trigger, and nearly fell over when the shot hammered his assailant to the ground.

Baird had one, long second to stare at the creature on the ground, realizing that it wasn't a Hybrid at all, before something looped around his neck and squeezed mightily.

_Goddamn helmet!_

He began to employ the same tactic, but a sharp kick to his lower back caused him to buckle to his knees. The elbow tightened slowly around his neck, causing stars and black dots to burst in his vision. He unleashed the fear, taking strength from it, and ducked over, simultaneously shooting to his feet with all of his might, trying to throw his attacker over his shoulder. It half-worked: the man attacking him was thrown forward and off-balance, but still had his elbow looped around Baird's windpipe. Baird gagged and almost passed out. Agonizingly, he brought the barrel of his gnasher up and jammed it into what he estimated was the man's torso, and fired. This time, the recoil from the gnasher threw him down into the dirt. The grip on his neck slackened, and he gulped a huge, painful breath and scrambled to his feet, boots sliding on leaves and tree roots.

He gained his feet, turned, and sent a final blast into the face of the man on the ground. He started to get his bearings, but was bowled over by a third assailant. He struck his head against a tree trunk, and suddenly everything was fuzzy. A foot or elbow descended on his throat again. He felt a blade thunk uselessly against his plates. The pressure of the blows was frightening, but far away. The knife grew erratic, desperate, searching for an opening in his kit. The knife moved to his shoulders, ripped through his civvies before being turned aside by the bulletproof pauldrons he had on underneath. He was suddenly very thankful for the impulse that caused him to grab the material a week ago, complaining that their stripped-down kits were useless if someone could hack their arms off. _Haha, right?_

Weakly, he depressed the actuator button on his helmet and called for help, before remembering with absolute clarity that it had broken on Vectes, but since he never wore it, he hadn't bothered to fix it. The notion that he was now going to die because he hadn't _fixed _something was either ironic or fitting.

Baird struggled madly, pressing against the weight on his throat and chest, every other beat of his heart a hammer blow to his consciousness. Through the condensation clouding the lenses of his helmet, he watched as his attacker stiffened in the middle of raining blows on Baird's chest. He slumped over, bonelessly, and for a moment, everything was still. Then Baird was hauled roughly to his feet.

He ripped his helmet off, the resulting flood of sensory feed making him dizzy. Marcus was standing over the twitching Gorasni on the ground, Dom's commando knife in hand. The cries from the beach seemed to swell and surround them in the stillness, but all Baird could hear was a wet, gurgling cough as his attacker slowly choked on his own lifeblood. Baird took a step backwards and nearly tripped over one of the other men. The air was heavy with the stench of nitrate from the spent shells.

_Gorasni? Did Trescu order this? Was this a mistake? _

Somehow, Baird didn't think it was. Marcus gave Baird a cursory glance before crouching over the dying man and sliding Dom's blade across his throat, as if he was cutting a cake. He wiped the blade clean on his pants, and came in close to Baird.

"All over a fucking instruction manual?" He said, a note of resignation in his tone.

Baird saw the man materialize from the trees behind Marcus. He tried to warn Marcus, but his voice squeaked comically in his bruised throat, leaving him to flail stupidly.

"Huh?" Marcus said, confused, before the Gorasni drove his own knife into Marcus' back, high on the shoulder. Marcus snarled and tried to twist away, the knife tearing through his flesh before stopping at his back plate with a _thunk. _He reached behind, grasping, but the Gorasni yanked his knife free and danced out of reach. Marcus groaned harshly and fought the urge to double over, and in that second of indecision, the Gorasni flashed forward again.

He watched Baird out of the corner of his eye, stumbling towards them, fumbling with shells, but his hands were shaking too badly to load his gnasher. Marcus slashed for the man's free arm and missed, his shoulder wound hissing in sharp protest. His wound burned like a paper cut, but it must be serious; his range of motion was wound tight, each movement an enormity. The man came at him again, and he couldn't see the knife; he heard Baird's sharp intake of breath, and knew that he was about to be gutted. His hands flew of their own accord. The two men clashed in a quiet jumble of equipment and the quick flash of blades. Marcus gritted his teeth as the foreign knife sank into the palm of his left hand, staying its thrust into his neck, letting the Gorasni step closer, unknowingly giving Marcus the edge. He focused his own berserk rage on Dom's knife, and prepared to use the last of his strength to shove the man away and bring his own knife to bear.

Baird threw the shells on the ground and hefted his gnasher like a club, and swung it hard, the barrel cannoning into the Gorasni's head. The force of the blow ripped the knife from Marcus' hand as the man toppled awkwardly to the dirt. The Gorasni started to babble brokenly as he tried to lever himself up on his elbows. Marcus stared at the wounded man and took a cleansing breath, noting that the tang of fresh blood now overwhelmed the stench of shit and rotten leaves.

The blonde engineer offered a hand to help him up, caught sight of Marcus' palm, and yanked on the collar of Marcus' plates instead. Baird blew out a tremulous breath, and drew his boltok. He checked the chamber before training it on the foliage.

"You...you okay, man?" He said, his voice rough.

Marcus didn't answer. He flexed and clenched his hand, staring at the ruined tissue impassively. He glanced at Baird, and knew from his friend's reaction that his hollowness was showing on his face. He was pulling away, like he always did, leaving the warmth of his husk for the chilly tranquility of emotionless action.

He indicated the Gorasni still pleading on the ground. "What's he saying?" His tone was disarming and dangerous-he could see Baird reeling from the juxtaposition. Baird visibly marshaled his wits, and listened with a lopsided expression.

"He's, uh, he's begging for mercy."

"Mercy, huh?" Marcus considered the injured worm writhing at his feet. He grasped one of the man's hands and thrust Dom's knife through the palm, savoring the cry. But it was never enough. Never enough to avenge him-

"Marcus, I-"

"He doesn't deserve mercy."

Baird glanced skyward briefly, ill-at-ease and unsure of how to react to him.

_The engineer out of words-that had been happening a lot lately. _Marcus knew he should rein in his behavior. Baird was no stranger to his cruel ways; the myriad of instances that had occurred during the long hell of the Locust War, the losses of composure, those brief divorces from their humanity as they exacted revenge-it was an unspoken secret they all carried. Marcus wanted to crush the pathetic thing mewling at his feet, but the way Baird was staring at him...it made him uncomfortable, conscientious. Why?

And like flipping a switch, his personality flowed back to him. The familiar weights of duty and responsibility settled on his shoulders, and the dark creature coiling in the pit of his stomach retreated. He slid Dom's knife into the sheath on his bandolier and drew his own boltok.

"Tell him to get up. Tell him to run."

Baird stared at him stupidly, before shaking his head quickly. "No, man. Just...just slot him."

"Tell him to _run_," Marcus reiterated, squaring his shoulders and sighting experimentally down the barrel. He could still hear cries of pain, but they were regularly drowned out by the _rat-a-tat _of Lancer fire.

A flurry of expressions crossed Baird's face, mutiny chief amongst them, before he clenched his jaw and gave Marcus a searing, _I-fucking-hate-you_ look. He barked in Gorasni, prodding the man with his foot. When the Gorasni made no attempt to rise, Baird's anger flared, and he dragged the man up bodily before shoving him forward. The Gorasni whimpered when he saw Marcus' stance, and broke into a shambling run.

Marcus trained the boltok casually, closed one eye, and fired.

Baird looked away, his face grim. He started to palpate the bruises forming on his neck, but thought of better of it.

"How did you know?" He asked, struggling past the images of Marlowe and the renewed noose of guilt.

Marcus shrugged. "Chalk it up to oppressive surveillance."

"Oh, _now _you have a sense of humor? Just needed to warm up with some homicide?" Baird said hotly, grasping for familiar territory.

"Yeah. Guess so," Marcus said, binding his hand with some cotton strips from his field kit. The gash ran from the edge of his palm to the yoke between thumb and forefinger. It glistened wetly in the dim moonlight as the first few layers of the makeshift bandage quickly stained black.

"Hayman is going to eviscerate you for closing a non-sterile wound. And I'd advise against stopping a knife with your fist in the future," Baird said, eyeing the rivulets of blood coursing down Marcus' wrist.

"Seriously, how did you know where I was? My helmet was-"

"-Broken. I remember."

"Then can you fucking _remember_ how you got over here?" Baird snapped, finally loading his gnasher and setting off towards the beach without a backwards glance. He was more than a little tired of Marcus saving his bacon as of late. _Fuck, I may as well grow a pair of tits and find a dress if Marcus keeps forcing me to play the damsel in distress._

"Stieg took a hit from one of the Hybrids. Peterson managed to fend it off. It was around that time I noticed you were missing," Marcus said from behind him.

"So you left everyone else behind and blazed a trail? How did you know I wasn't taking a leak?"

"Baird, are you going to make me regret choosing you over Peterson?" Marcus said in his deadpan way.

Baird felt a chill go up his spine, and he stopped in his tracks to regard the older man. It was hard to read Marcus' face in the dark, but it wouldn't have mattered if the sun blazed forth just then-the Sergeant was as inscrutable as ever.

"What do you mean?" he asked, knowing the last time he asked that question, brain matter had been forcibly ejected all over his person.

"It was come after you, or pull the Hybrid off Peterson. I chose you."

"Was that supposed to be comforting?" Baird said incredulously, but his voice held too much apprehension to be believable. That Marcus could so easily choose one life and discard another, that he could take multiple stab wounds and still muster that berserker calm was disturbing.

Marcus drew level with him, gnasher drawn, and Baird noticed that he was shooting left-paw. _His shoulder must be pretty fucked-up. _Marcus didn't say anything for a few moments. His blue eyes peered into Baird's green ones.

"I chose Delta," Marcus stated simply. "I always choose Delta." He stalked past Baird and pushed into a jog, leaving the engineer speechless.

* * *

><p>Baird leaned against the wall outside of Hayman's office, waiting for her to finish stitching up Marcus' injured hand and shoulder. He ground his fists against his eyes, trying to assuage the headache that was pounding behind them. He wanted nothing more right now than to ditch Marcus with the doctor and head back to his room for a hot shower and a warm bed, but he figured blowing the Sergeant off twice in a row wouldn't bode well for his physical safety.<p>

The blonde was bone weary – the fisticuffs he'd come to with the Gorasni had used the last few drops of caffeine fueled energy that he'd had. Now, it was all he could do to lock his knees to keep them from buckling. He could feel the dull throb of the bruises he'd gotten from the tiff; there was an annoyingly painful abrasion on his ribs that he knew was going to give him hell come morning.

_Great, now the Dynamic Duo has something else to overreact about. What a fucking day_, he thought.

If Marcus thought he and Cole were being stealthy in _any way_ with their Baird Surveillance project, they were sadly mistaken. Being sorted, all of a sudden, into Marcus' squad was a needle in Baird's side, but he knew that there was nothing he could do about it besides rage quietly to himself. Fighting the two of them, he'd found, was a lot like banging your head up against a brick wall: you're the one who's going to end up bloodied and unconscious.

His shoulders slumped in exhaustion and he let his eyes slide shut. So much had happened in the span of just an hour, and he could admit in the privacy of his own head that he was a little concerned with his apparent detachment from everything. Watching Marcus slit that Gorasni's throat and stab the other one's hand hadn't really made him feel much of anything, regardless of what his expression had said, and it only confirmed to him that Fenix was seriously, dangerously crazy when the situation called for it (and sometimes when it didn't). Even the disbelief he should be feeling at the fact that the Gorasni used a fucking _Hybrid attack_ to mask a personal throw-down was muted and distant.

Ever since Marlowe decided to show him, first hand, what exploded brains felt like running down your skin, Baird had been feeling frighteningly numb. He figured it was some kind of extended shock reaction to what happened and the guilt that was associated with it. Baird felt the phantom slide of brain matter on his cheek and vigorously rubbed his dirty hand along the skin there, trying to ward off the disconcerting sensation.

A shudder ran through his body as those feelings of contrition and bewilderment pushed through his benumbed internal armor, smothering him. Baird pushed from the wall where he was leaning and began to recite multiplication tables to himself; numbers had always served as a good, reliable distraction when he wanted to get his mind off of something.

Fast steps from the other end of the hallway distracted him from his thoughts and he looked up to see a red-faced Anya coming towards him like a rushing tidal wave.

_Ah, fuck-berries. I don't want to deal with this. _

"This is your fault," Anya snapped, just as Baird anticipated that she would.

"You're getting predictable, Anya," he said, sending her a bored stare and leaning against the wall again.

Anya vented a few unintelligible noises and jabbed a finger into Baird's chest.

"Marcus is in there, right now, getting stitches because of _you_," she growled, her green eyes darkening in anger.

"No, _not_ because of me. _I_ didn't stab him. I don't even _own_ a knife." Baird shrugged. He knew he was being glib; partly to piss Anya off and partly because he honestly was having a little trouble caring about her fury.

"It's still your fault. He wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for you. It seems these days that everything he does, everything _everyone_ does, somehow revolves around _you_."

Anya had been taking small steps further and further into Baird's personal space and now stood toe to toe with him. Baird's patience had been in short supply lately, and the well was quickly running dry in the face of Anya's blame. He stood up straight and stepped away from the wall. His eyes bored into Anya's as he took another step forward, forcing her to back away from him.

"You _do_ know that he's not dying. He got nicked with a knife, that's all. He might get some new scars to show off _at the most_, but here you are, flying off the handle _as usual_." He stopped his advance on her, but continued to pin her with his gaze. He could feel the first drum beats of his own anger in his chest and was doing his best to keep it locked away.

"Oh, I see" Anya scoffed. "His organs haven't fallen out, so I shouldn't worry, right?"

"That's not my call. If you want to get your panties in a twist about Marcus' paper cuts, that's your business, but don't get in my face with this bullshit about it being my fault," Baird retorted.

"Wow," she huffed. "I'm so unsurprised that you won't take responsibility. You know why Marcus got hurt, Baird? Because he was watching your ass. Because he had to step in and protect you, _again_, from the fallout of you shooting your mouth off. Oh, but it's not your fault right?"

"Give me a break, Anya. So what if I cursed out a few Indies. _So fucking what_?" Baird could feel his body warming up as his blood began to race under his skin. "I'm not responsible for the decisions they make. And, for the record, I can't help it if your boyfriend thought catching a knife with his bare hand was a genius military tactic – he made that choice. Maybe if you took half a second to take off the crazy, jealous girlfriend hat you've been sporting lately, you'd be able to see that."

Anya's face screwed up into a dark glower and she clenched her fist at her side. Baird felt a vague sense of satisfaction at her reaction.

_That's right, bitch, I'm better at this than you are._

Baird charged on, wanting to bring the argument to a close however he had to so he could hot-foot it to a neutral zone. He needed to get gone before the last vestiges of sanity he was desperately clinging to abandoned him and he lashed out in a way that he couldn't control.

"I mean, honestly, Anya," he said in sickeningly sweet tone, "You don't really think you're fooling anyone, do you? You don't really think that no one has noticed how much of a bitch you've been since we got marooned here, right? What's the matter? Not getting enough attention?"

Anya pursed her lips so hard they turned white and gave Baird a dangerous, under-eyed look. Baird figured that if he could just get her angry enough, she'd shove off on her own - with minimal bloodshed.

"Fuck you, you selfish _prick_," she finally snarled out. "You don't know anything about me. _Fuck you_."

The blonde woman pulled herself up to her full height and glared at Baird.

"You may not be accountable for their choices, but you do have to answer for _your own_," she crossed her arms tightly over her chest and sent him a searing look. "You didn't have to be childish and lose your temper with Trescu, thus offending _every single Gorasni person on the island_, but you did – "

"That asshole deserved every word I said to him," Baird said, cutting her off. "Not only did he bring an armed guard with him, threaten my _whole, entire crew_, and insinuate that he was going to take my research from me by force, but he also waved his little decorative pistol in my face. But, I guess you forgot that part."

"Oh," she laughed derisively, "You object to guns being shoved in your face? Well, then maybe you should learn to keep your mouth shut. You needled him pointlessly when all you had to do was give him what he was asking for, but you're so selfish and prideful that you just had to argue with him. You just had to get in the last word."

"Ok, feel free to spare me the 'selfish and prideful' combo. I am sick to death of that tired old line."

"You're tired of it because it's true. You'd eat a bullet if it meant you could have the last word – don't deny it. You're high on your own ego, and everyone else is willing to let it slide because you can 'fix things'." Anya sat in her hip and gave Baird a nasty smile. "I wonder where you got the gumption, considering how you kowtowed to parents before you enlisted."

For a moment, Baird went perfectly still. She'd caught him off guard, bringing up his parents, but if that's how she wanted to play…

"As if _you_ weren't a slave to your parents? I'm guessing Daddy couldn't handle your bitch of a mother and wanted to drown himself when he realized the potential you had for turning out just like her?" Baird sneered and leaned into her space. "He was wrong, though. Turns out, you couldn't measure up to Mommy Dearest. Even now that she's dead, you'll always just be Helena Stroud's daughter. You'll always just be the girl who was never _good enough_ to shed her mother's shadow."

Anya's face flushed purple and she moved closer; the two of them were almost nose to nose.

"At least my parents didn't use me as an accessory, or whip me like a dog." She gave him a mean smile. "You win some, you lose some."

Baird narrowed his eyes at her even as he internally quailed at her statement. He didn't know where she got the information about his old life from; he'd taken painstaking, possibly illegal steps to keep the more unsavory parts of his past from being noted in his medical file when he'd joined up. He knew that instances of abuse wouldn't have kept him from enlisting - they weren't exactly turning away able bodied men after E-day – but he still hadn't wanted anyone to know.

Anya's face brightened in realization, taking his surprised silence as confirmation. A smug sense of victory wound its way through her body even as a throb of guilt hit her low in her stomach.

Baird continued to stare at her, trying to cobble together a return, but the truth of her words about his parents had hit him much harder than expected and brought back a lot of old, painful memories. The staring contest between the two blondes stretched until the soft squeak of the door behind them drew their attention. Marcus paused and scrutinized the two before shutting the office door and moving in between them.

"Everything okay, here?" he rumbled, glancing between Baird and Anya.

Neither of them answered, settling for glaring at each other again. The tension in the hallway was palpable, and the air nearly sparked with negative energy.

"Is that a 'no'?" Marcus asked, quickly getting irritated.

"Your girl here was just letting me know how everything's my fault. Oh, and how selfish I am," Baird finally stated quietly, rolling his eyes.

"I was just explaining to him how his irresponsible decisions regarding Trescu are the cause of all this crap. If _he'd _kept his mouth shut, _you_ probably wouldn't have gotten hurt," she said tightly.

"That's not necessarily true," Marcus stated, trying to be the voice of reason. "What Baird did didn't _help_, but the Gorasni have just as much reason to be pissed at me on my own merits."

Anya backed up from Marcus, mouth slightly agape with disbelief.

"Seriously?" she asked, her voiced pitched higher than usual. "You're taking _his_ side?"

"I'm not taking anyone's side," Marcus answered tiredly, trying to smooth the moment over. "I'm just saying that throwing blame around doesn't solve anything."

"Bullshit! That's bullshit, Marcus," Anya yelled. "He's at the root of every issue we're having. Those Gorasni men were after _him_. Not you and not anyone else on the field. _Just him_. If you hadn't been forced to step in on his behalf, you wouldn't have had to sit around in that harpy Hayman's office so she could knit your skin back together."

"Anya -"

"No!" Her loud voice echoed off the walls of the hallway and reverberated around the three of them. "I'm sick of you defending him. He fucks up, you blow it off. It's the same old song and dance, and I'm tired of it. He should be culpable for his actions!"

"I haven't done anything wrong, here, Anya," Baird finally spoke up, tired of hearing her screeching voice.

"Sure, you're totally innocent," she snarled. "You say anything you want to everyone around you. You treat people like shit and think that it's okay. Hell, you don't even treat your engineers with respect." She stepped in close to Baird again, going in for the kill. "And let's face it; you're probably to blame for that kid Marlowe blowing his brains out. It isn't lost on me that he made sure to leave you a parting gift."

Baird's face slackened and his mind went blank. Briefly, Marlowe's last words raced around in his head, fueled now by Anya's observations. He noticed Marcus staring at him, taking in the wounded look in Baird's eyes before he could hide it. He saw a look of comprehension come over the older man's face – now the story was adding up. Now he understood why Baird dodged questions and avoided the subject. It was _guilt_.

Baird wrenched his eyes away from the couple and let out a harsh sigh.

"Are we done here," he asked. "I've got shit to do."

His voice sounded stony and hollow even to his own ears. That familiar feeling of being trapped was creeping up on him, making him feel panicky and small. He didn't wait for either person to answer before turning on his heel and walking quickly out of the doors.

* * *

><p>"Baird!" Marcus called, walking after his friend. "Goddammit, Baird, <em>stop<em>."

"Christ on high, Marcus, what do you want?" The blonde whirled around quickly to face the older man, startling back a few steps at his nearness. "Are you really running after me like a woman? Go back to Anya, man, I'm going to finish up some work."

He turned on his heel and began to make the long trek back to the safe haven of his workshop.

"You really think that running off by yourself after someone just tried to kill you is a good idea?" Marcus asked, keeping up easily with Baird's brisk pace.

The engineer pulled up short again and shot Marcus a disbelieving look.

"What are you? My fucking body guard? Leave me alone."

"Right. Because you wouldn't be dead right now if I hadn't stepped in earlier. I'm sure you can handle another ambush all on your own," Marcus answered sardonically.

Baird only shot him a displeased look from the corner of his eye, and kept his mouth shut. He couldn't deny that Marcus had saved his ass big-time tonight. His head had cleared, and he didn't feel like his esophagus was going to cave in anymore, but he was certain that he wouldn't be able to win the field if those Gorasni ass-rapists tried for a second assassination attempt.

"Let the emasculation begin," he muttered to himself.

"If you've got something to say..." Marcus trailed off.

Baird scoffed and quickened his step again. "Fine, Marcus, you can escort me safely back to the workshop if that'll ease your pain. Just know that walking me home doesn't mean I'm putting out."

The blonde struggled to insert a sense of the ridiculous into the situation. He already felt childish and low after all of tonight's events, and having Marcus take it upon himself to see him to safety felt a lot like having his balls removed. It stabbed at him that the older man figured he couldn't take care of himself – that he thought he was too weak to handle what life was throwing at him right now.

The two men continued on in silence, the only noise the distant slapping of the waves, the _clomp__-__clomp_ of their boots, and the various native, nocturnal animals of the ground and sky.

Baird internally sighed in relief as his workshop came into view. Part of him wanted to make a mad dash for it – not out of fear, but to escape the suffocating presence of Marcus Fenix. Even at his quietest, the man was a _force_.

"Oh, look. We made it. And without anyone trying to put extra holes in our bodies. Go us," Baird stated drily, trying to shoo the other man away.

Marcus barely spared him a glance as he moved ahead to lift the heavy doors and inspect the interior space.

"_Really_?" Baird asked incredulously. "Seriously, get the fuck out. I need to work."

Marcus turned to the blonde and gave him a measuring look, as if he was trying to gauge the younger man's mood based solely on visual feedback. Baird was immediately uncomfortable with the scrutiny and scratched at the back of his head nervously.

"You need directions, or something? Door's over _there_."

Marcus shot him a narrow look before rolling his eyes and making his way to the rolling door.

"Try not to get yourself killed, fuck-wit. God knows you seem to have a target on your back."

Baird watched until the older man's shape disappeared into the dark and sat grumpily at his desk, not bothering to actually pick up any tools and begin to work. He leaned his head to one side then the other, stretching out the strained and tired muscles of his neck. He had a mean headache brewing after his ill-fated run-in with the tree. The pain webbed out from the tender goose egg on the back of his skull and radiated down through his neck and shoulders.

He sighed heavily and laid his head on the cool top of the neatly arranged table. He was having trouble taking in how fucking awful the day had been. He had a laundry list of things that had gone wrong since he'd woken up next to Sam this morning – not the least of which was the fact that he hadn't seen her all day. She was not going to like hearing about the Indies trying to snuff him out. He almost didn't want to tell her for fear of what she might do. He'd have to be sure and let her know that the perpetrators had been swiftly, and violently, dealt with. Still, Sam had a temper, and she just might use tonight's events as a reason to set a few blocks of C-4 upon the _Egar Trescu_.

Baird groaned to himself and prayed briefly that, if he did see Sam tonight, she wouldn't be in the mood to talk. Part of him – most of him – wanted her there, but he didn't want to have to explain anything. Maybe he'd be more willing to rehash tonight's bullshit after the sun came up, but, for now, just having someone around who settled him would be enough.

* * *

><p>The attack was over before word had reached Sam's small comms crew on the southern side of the island, where the granite formations were taller, the winds were stronger, and the walkies were prone to long bouts of static. The energy bar she'd been chewing turned to sawdust in her mouth as Olivares, her only Specialist, had come with the news at a run. He assured her there had been few casualties, despite the viciousness of the attack, and he had orders from Anya to stay put until Jace and Clayton arrived to escort them back to the hotel. All she could squeeze from him was the repeated promise that "no one from Delta had died." She had just narrowly avoided her friends a few minutes ago and was leaving to find Baird when she spied Fenix's distinctive form and do-rag outlined by the yellowish floodlights from the nearby cluster of buildings. He was waiting at the bottom of the ridge that her comms team was prepping for the construction of the comm tower bank, and he was definitely waiting for <em>her<em>.

She swore loudly and slung the heavy bag of tools over her shoulder, heart flipping in her chest, and picked her way carefully across the granite ridge and down the scaffolding, aware of his eyes tracking her closely. She narrowed her gaze as she approached him, taking in the bandage on his hand and the bulkiness of a dressing underneath the thin civvie shirt he wore.

Marcus held up his injured hand, forestalling her questions. "I'm pretty pissed at your boyfriend," he said. "And I know you're going to go check on him, so just remember that I'm the one trying to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. Ok?"

Sam was strongly tempted to lash out-her feelings still smarted from his and Cole's dismissal of her when they had gone hunting for Baird a few days ago. She curled her lip at the memory, not bothering to hide her anger. "Is he injured?"

_Surely he wouldn't dare come break that news to me with such...composure._

The Sergeant shook his head and gestured with his bandaged hand. "He's fine. Mostly."

Samantha narrowed her eyes again and stalked closer. "Mostly?"

Marcus regarded her with a chilly expression. "Call off the dogs, Sam. He got a bit banged up, no worse than any other time. He and Anya had a nuclear argument, too. I just wanted you to know, one- uh, victim, to another," he said, gesturing at himself, then her, his attempt at humor falling flat. "I definitely won't hear the end of it tonight." He considered her in the harsh lighting. "I expect you won't hear one damn thing about it, if you catch my drift. Goodnight."

Sam's stomach swooped as she stared at the spotting on his shirt from his shoulder dressing as he stalked away. The fear began to gnaw earnestly at her insides, her thoughts a wild, snarling tangle as she took off at the fastest pace the heavy bag would allow. He'd want to be alone, and his workshop was the only building that didn't have a spare set of keys.

She jogged along, deep in thought, staring ahead at the ominous gray bulkheads rolling across the sky. _A storm?_ It seemed novel; the island had been storm swept for years on end, but once the maelstrom generator went offline, the island had been dry and perpetually sunny for going on six weeks.

_I guess it's not that unusual. The weather patterns had to return to normal at some point._

Sam loved storms. The webs of lightning forking through the muted sky in the blink of an eye, the riotous thunder and the answering reverberations from buildings and trees; it made her feel small and humble, awed in the presence of such untamed power. From the shrieking squalls to the steady rain that fell in sheets, the rhythm of the raindrops drumming over everything often put her in a meditative mood. Or a sensual one. The wind had picked up, ruffling the tropical foliage, and the rain started to fall in fat drops.

She stopped jogging once she got under cover from the edge of the warehouse roof, and tested the side door handle, surprised to find it open. She hung back a second, laboring to get her breathing under control, her mind racing. _Marcus would have told me if Baird had been attacked, right? Baird was fine. 'Mostly' fine, even._ She mentally rolled her eyes.

_And he'd had a fight with Anya? How the fuck was that relevant? Those two were oil and water to start. And speaking of water..._Sam shook her head to shed the raindrops and pushed the door open. _Marcus was a weird bird, sometimes._

The main shutter doors dividing the warehouse were locked, but the side doors were all slightly ajar. She found him in the secondary bay. He was seated at the soldering bench, facing away, a stick of solder in one hand, the iron in the other, and a pile of electrical wires and circuit boards on the table in front of him.

"Hey," she called in a low voice, not wanting to startle him.

He half-turned in recognition, gave her a quick side-glance, and turned back to his work. Sam's heart leapt into her throat as she entertained the thought that perhaps he didn't _want_ to see her.

_But why was the outside door open? Baird was never careless, especially now after Trescu's bully tactics. _

_No, he wanted me to find him, _she decided. He was being cagey and aloof-so, the norm, but perhaps tonight's events had rattled him a bit. He appeared to be alright, all limbs in working orders, etc. _What did Marcus mean by banged up?_ Sam wrestled back the desire to melt against his back, to comfort him, sensing that Baird's headspace was moody and off-kilter and he didn't want to be soothed. She made a light, dismissive noise and retreated to the other workstation, dropping the bag of tools on the floor with a loud _clank. _

She busied herself with organizing and connecting the mess of wires that would soon be installed in the comms bank – the tedious task of stripping and twisting the wires allowing her to disengage and mull over the small bits of information she had about what had sent Damon spiraling into this sullen mood.

The minutes ticked by, swelling into an hour, then an hour and a half. Sam sighed quietly, laying the last twist of wire onto the table and looked over her shoulder at Damon. He was still hard at work, making fine connections in the series of motherboards he was creating. Her eyes flicked to the ceiling at the sudden drumming of a heavy rain. Those dark clouds she'd seen rolling in earlier had finally broken and unleashed the bulk of their precious cargo. It seemed eerily prophetic. She transferred her gaze back to the engineer and, making a snap decision, vacated her seat and made her way to him. He still ignored her when she planted her backside on the desk he was using - his only acknowledgment was a small irritated grunt - but Sam pressed on, unmoved by his display.

"You going to tell me what happened, or shall we play Twenty Questions?"

No answer from the blonde. Sam rolled her eyes in exasperation. If it were anyone else, she'd already be done asking questions and concentrating on moving forward with her own business, but it wasn't. It was Damon, and he was hers, and she'd ask questions all night long if that's what it took to make even a crack in his armor.

"I talked to Marcus before I got here," she offered.

_That _got his attention. He shot her a look that hovered somewhere between embarrassment and anger – though Sam couldn't figure out where either of those were coming from.

"And what did our fearless leader have to tell you?" he asked, finally putting down his tools.

"Only that he was trying to keep you from doing something stupid, and that he's mad at you. Oh, and that you got into an argument with Anya. Surprise."

"Yeah, surprise," Damon echoed, his voice colored with a sneer.

When he didn't elaborate, the first twinges of unease shot through Sam's chest.

"Why does Marcus think you're going to do something stupid?" she asked, a note of concern weaseling through her confident tone.

"Because he gets off on being bossy. And he enjoys sticking that grizzled face of his wherever he pleases. Despite the fact that, you know, he has plenty of his own drama. Like Anya."

"Baird, what did Anya say to you?" Sam asked bluntly, ignoring the Marcus tirade.

"Oh, now you've got to know everything too?" Baird countered, rounding on her with a glower on his face.

Sam was equal parts hurt and outraged. "Oh, that's right; the door to the workshop was just open because you were careless, right?" She pushed away from the desk. "Silly me, giving more than a shit about you, reading too much into our sleeping arrangement." Her words were mocking, but the question in them was too obvious to miss.

His expression changed, and he looked beyond exhausted, like he had aged ten years in a matter of minutes. "Samantha, that's not...that's not what I meant."

"It isn't? Because that's what I heard."

Damon scrunched his face up and swiped the goggles off his head, laying them on the desk. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, trying for words, his mouth working soundlessly before he collapsed back into his chair and knotted his hands in his hair, and stared angrily at the floor.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Damon began, heaving a sigh, "But I never intended for anyone to know. Not even Cole. It's...embarrassing. I don't know how she knew. I made sure it wasn't in my files."

He glanced at Sam, gauging her reaction. She was still inside and out, grateful in that moment for her poker face that the horrors of war, clichéd as they were, had cultivated. She had no idea what he would say next, but something about his reticence told her that she might be ripping Anya a new one tomorrow.

"Damon, you know I wouldn't use information against you," she said quietly, keeping his gaze.

Damon sighed again and looked back at the desk. He visibly swallowed and fiddled with the tools. "Anya doesn't have those boundaries."

It distantly occurred to Sam that Damon appeared more hurt than angry-a sure sign that he was beginning to let his guard down. _What should I say? 'It couldn't be that bad?', when I know very well that it could be horrendous? _

"Anya was an...accomplished comms lieutenant after E-Day, from what I've heard. She probably had clearance for all kinds of classified files."

"Yeah, Samantha, she was, "Damon said, looking pained at having to agree with her, "But what she brought up isn't in my record _anywhere_. And what's worse is that she caught me off guard, and I didn't deflect fast enough. She knows it's true."

"Why didn't you tell her to go fuck herself, then?" Sam asked, genuinely confused.

Damon's eyes were full of angst. "Samantha, don't you understand? It's true. It's true what she said. And she knows it's true."

"What did she say, Damon?" Sam prompted, laying a hand on his shoulder. He grimaced at her touch and rotated the joint carefully under her hand. Sam snatched her hand back, her expression darkening. "Damon, are you hurt? Marcus said you were banged up-"

"Marcus saved my ass tonight from a posse of crazed Gorasni that used the Hybrid attack to cover their tracks, only they did a shitty job of it," Damon said matter-of-factly in a weary tone, clearly focused on what he _hadn't_ told her yet. "I'm not sure if they were trying to skewer me or Marcus. Our helmets were on, so, it's obvious that I could be confused for that mountain of scarred muscle, right?" he said sarcastically.

"Should I be concerned that you glossed over the fact that people are trying to kill you to complain about aesthetics?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"People have been trying to kill me for years, Samantha. And you. And for no other reason except that we exist. It's not news."

_But it certainly was news when you were living in close quarters with your alleged murderers, wasn't it?_

"Damon, this 'crazy posse' has backup that lives in our harbor. When...whoever organized this gets word-"

Damon pinned her with tight, hollow eyes. "What makes you think that any Gorasni left that stand of trees alive?"

Sam's hackles prickled. "You killed them?" It's what she expected, but his attitude was all wrong.

"All dead," Baird confirmed, "Though it would be more accurate to say that Marcus and I went halfsies on it. I had to take care of a few before he galloped up to save the day."

"I know we're soldiers, but, you're quite cavalier for a man that walked away from an ambush assassination attempt," Sam said slowly, sick from the roiling mass of fear churning in her stomach.

"I'm far more concerned with character assassinations, Samantha," Baird replied in a deadpan tone that rivaled Marcus.

Sam stared at him, mouth agape, gob smacked by his utter disregard for his safety. "What in the nine hells is wrong with you?" she said indignantly. "A group of people tried to kill you, and all you can say is 'I'm sure glad they didn't insult my engineering skills?' Are you..." She took a deep breath and shut Damon from her sight. She was suddenly very angry with the blonde, but she needed to stay focused. He wouldn't have sacrificed the details of tonight's encounter if he wasn't trying to distract her from the issue with Anya.

"Last time: are you injured, or am I going to have to tear your shirt off and physically examine you? And don't you dare make a joke-" she growled when he opened his mouth, a stupid smirk on his face.

"What am I supposed to say, then?" he shot back.

Abruptly, her eyes watered, and Damon blurred in her vision. "You're supposed to tell me what happened, not treat me like goddamn Marcus! Are you just going to yo-yo me back and forth through your confidence, cherry-picking what you want to share, and lying about what you don't? If that's how it is, I don't want it."

The thundering rain filled the silence between them. Damon scowled at her and looked away again, all traces of his cocky attitude gone. Her words echoed in her head as Sam swiped angrily at her tears, hating them, shocked that only a few hours ago, she had been pining for Damon's return.

"They beat me up pretty good," he said after a few minutes, rising from his seat.

He unclipped the fastenings on his kit, and gingerly pulled the chest plate over his head and set it down on the workbench. Sam's gasp escaped her hands and echoed around the warehouse. Damon rolled his eyes and gently pulled his shirt off, making an effort to keep his left shoulder still.

"This concerned girlfriend thing, it's too much like Anya," Damon said, his voice husky and conciliatory.

Sam had moved in close, laying her hands on his chest, a few inches away from the patchwork of bruises that mottled the pale skin of his neck and shoulders. She viciously stemmed the tears that threatened to flow.

"Bloody hell, Damon. They tried to choke you out?"

"I'd like to say that I had it well in-hand, but the truth is they really got the jump on me. My gnasher saved me-the lancer would have been too big, too slow," he said, covering her hands with his own. He stared at her, lost in thought, and Sam wanted desperately to see the images that were surely being replayed in his mind's eye. "They were trying to…well, it's good that Fenix came, is all. But I'm getting sick of it. Sick of being watched." He heaved a sigh and rested his chin on their hands briefly before meeting Sam's eyes.

"He's just looking out for you," Samantha said softly. "He's so afraid of losing you and Cole."

Damon huffed another sigh through his nose and glanced at the desk. "I know."

He dropped a hand to her waist and pulled her hips closer, but there was no sexual energy in his touch. He wanted comfort-in this moment, at least, before his defense mechanisms came back online, or the rain cleared up, or any number of incidental things occurred. Sam knew this was her opening.

"What did Anya say, sweetheart?"

His eyes flickered at the pet name, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude. "Lucky guess about my childhood."

Sam had figured that part already. The only subject truly off-limits with Damon was anything in his life that happened before E-Day. She encouraged him to continue with a soft _mmhmm _and switched her gaze to his bruises, taking the pressure off.

His chest swelled under her hands as he took a deep, steadying breath. "Fenix wasn't the only kid with shitty parents," he started in an uncertain tone. "Marcus' parents were...well..."

He took another breath, searching for the words. "His family was endothermic, and mine was exothermic. Does that make sense?"

Samantha loved him so desperately in that moment, both sad and touched that he could only use scientific reactions to explain his feelings.

"Aggressive, passive-aggressive. Explosion...uh...suppression? Right?"

Damon nodded, a tiny smile quirking his mouth before falling back into a frown. "They were...cruel. Selfish. They wanted-" he broke off and fell silent again. "They never cared about what I wanted." His tone was flat, and Sam got the impression he had recited these words to himself countless times. She watched him from the corner of her eye, not needing to see him to hear the younger Damon underneath the adult Damon's words.

"You know, this isn't a unique thing," he said, taking an entirely different tack. "Cole's really the exception."

"If it was just being dealt a set of shit parents, I don't think you would have cared," Sam replied carefully, starting to trace his collarbone with a light finger.

"Yeah, that's what Marcus got," Baird agreed. "What I mean is-Samantha, I understand all the bullshit psychology behind it, but..." He worried his lower lip and narrowed his eyes. "There's just no way that Anya could have known the, the things-what they did."

Sam let the silence stretch out. "How bad was it, Damon?" She prompted, almost whispering.

His mouth had set in a grim line. "Anya-the cunt-said it best, really. I was an accessory."

"That's what she said? An accessory?" Sam often forgot that Damon was the last heir to one of the founding families of Tyrus. It was so contrary to his personality. In a weird way, he could have been royalty, if the Tyrans hadn't organized into a military dictatorship. She immediately had visions of him as a child being dragged hither and thither to various functions and benefits.

"Just a bauble to be shown, an achievement," he went on, oblivious to her silence. "The last missing jewel in the Baird family crown."

"That's not unusual," Sam said simply, her heartbeat hammering in her ears.

"No, it isn't. Lots of the founder kids grew up like me. I don't know if other fathers forced them to drink a liter of Ephyran Gold just to impress his boss. I don't know if they had to constantly explain why one of their wrists was sprained, or that waiting in the cafeteria to be picked up after school caused heart palpitations," Damon said, his voice picking up speed.

He tore his eyes from the desk and met her gaze for the first time. "There are hundreds of similar instances that I can remember. It's, uh, difficult to…well, I don't want to say-"

"You don't need to," Sam replied, her heart breaking quietly. She was simultaneously shocked and unsurprised that the details of his childhood had surpassed her own expectations. She reached up to brush his hair, but his hand came up to arrest hers.

"I don't want your pity," he said, his hand tightening.

"What _do_ you want, then?"

He considered her for a moment. "I already got my wish years ago, served up to me in a morgue complete with white tablecloths."

Not for the first time, the realization that Damon had severe emotional issues caused Sam to consider if pursuing a relationship with the engineer was worth it. Damon would certainly agree. But the way his brow furrowed as he stared into her eyes, the gleam of intelligence and the emotion in his green depths sweeping over her in waves, his slightly-chapped lower lip inches away from her own-Samantha knew she had never been more consumed by a man than she was by Damon. And she was about to be equally consumed with making Anya regret her words in the most visceral way possible.

"It wasn't enough, though, was it?"

"No. It was a pyrrhic victory," Baird said with a sneer. "They still fucked me over." He snorted to himself and said, "I guess I should be happy that they didn't _actually_ fuck me. There were some founder kids I knew, you could tell..."

Sam shook her head and pressed her face to Damon's collarbone, relieved that he had addressed the one question she could never, ever ask him. She kissed the skin there, and drew back to consider him. Damon looked ready to fall over; divulging his secret had cost him his last bit of strength, but his eyes were very much awake, their rapid movement suggesting he was deep in analysis.

"I had to be hospitalized, once, when I was fifteen. My father didn't stop when he usually did," he mused, talking more to himself than to Sam. "I wonder if those records made it onto my permanent. Maybe that's how she knew. A shot in the dark." He gestured dismissively.

"The medical reports weren't...accurate, were they?" Sam asked, knowing that it couldn't be so, or Damon's life would have changed radically after the incident.

Damon shook his head. "Filled with the most convincing lies, of course. We had a physician on retainer that we shared with two other families. He made sure nothing could indict my parents."

"She had no right, absolutely no fucking right to even speculate about what she _might _have seen in your records," Samantha said hotly. "How, how _dare _she even-"

"I leveled the same shit cannon at her, ok? I referred to her absent father and overbearing mother in a...slightly less than appropriate fashion."

Sam's eyes nearly bugged from her head. "You're _defending_ her? After she drew forth this bit of garbage and spewed it in your face, you're going to _defend_ what she said?"

"You're getting shrieky, Samantha."

"Wait until-"

"No, no," Damon interrupted. " _You _wait. I'm not defending her. She's still a gigantic cunt that has bamboozled Marcus. I'm just saying that she attacked me unfairly, so I retaliated, etc. I'm giving you the order of events, Samantha. And I'm ordering you to leave. Her. Alone."

Sam's hackles rose. "You can't tell me what to do. _No one _tells me what to do."

Damon half-rolled his eyes and waited patiently for her to finish. "I think that's abundantly clear. Which is why I'm _asking_ you to let it go. It's my issue. Not yours."

She scoffed and pulled away, but Damon twisted her hips back and yanked them flush with his, his touch commanding and insistent.

"Please, Samantha. I'm asking," he wheedled in a low voice.

"You're _manipulating,_" she corrected indignantly, her awakened arousal spiking where their bodies touched.

"Is it working?" he asked in her ear, sending shivers down her back.

"Damn you, Damon," she growled, relaxing against his hips. "If she says one word to me, I'm going to take her out."

"Fine. What's that saying about ladies not starting fights?" He teased, his breath on her cheek maddeningly warm. The thumbs making circles on her hips extinguished her blazing anger to a guttering flame.

"I think you know the answer," she said, tilting her head up and planting a deep, aching kiss on his mouth.

He made an approving noise and returned the favor. "Not tonight, honey. I have a headache," he said ruefully when they parted. Sam mock-sighed and rolled her eyes.

He allowed Sam to pull his shirt back on, and shook his head in shame when she refused to let him carry his chest plate. They stood at the side door, looking out into the fine mist of the rain. It was a few hours past midnight. Baird dropped an open hand to his side and brushed Sam's, an invitation. She smiled to herself and hefted the chest plate before taking his hand and together, they walked side-by-side back to the hotel.

* * *

><p>Cole felt an unfamiliar anger coursing just under the surface of his skin. He'd spoken briefly with Marcus earlier in the afternoon about everything that went down with the Gorasni, the argument with Anya, and the low blow she'd hit the engineer with. It had taken every ounce of self-control Cole could muster to not find the blonde woman and shake her. He'd waited all day to talk to her, hoping he'd simmer down the way he normally did, but every time he thought about it, he found himself seething again. He wasn't sure what all Anya knew about how Baird had been acting these past weeks, but whether or not she understood the gravity of the situation was irrelevant; she was so far out of line that she couldn't even see it anymore. The engineer had been slowly coming out of whatever unbalanced head-space he'd been stuck in, and Cole knew that Anya's dig may have set him back a few paces.<p>

Currently, he was shouldering his way through throngs of Gears, heading towards the sizable office where the new comms team was located. He hoped Anya would be alone; he had a lot to say and he wasn't keen on saying it in front of her team. He was angry, not disrespectful.

He'd been rehearsing what he'd say when he met her, thinking that if he had something planned, he wouldn't haul off and start ignoring his natural word filter and tell her all about herself. Cole struggled mightily to ignore the tiny, mean part of him that whispered that it didn't matter because she deserved whatever she got after the bullshit she'd pulled last night. Cole wasn't sure if he should be happy that he hadn't been there when it all it went down, or not. He might have been able to remove the flash point if he'd been around – or, maybe, he would've gone into some sort of blood-lust, berserker rage and ripped the poor woman apart. He wasn't sure; everyone had been so thin-skinned lately, and any predictability of character had gone out the window. He admitted to himself that he'd been a little out of sorts lately, even though those who didn't know him well couldn't tell. He'd always been protective of Baird – of all of his friends, really – but his recent reactions were out of the ordinary.

Cole stopped and collected his thoughts when the door to Anya's office came into view. The source of his ire was only a few feet and one thin, wooden door away from him – he needed to be in control of himself for this confrontation. He mentally wrestled the raging part of himself and shoved it back into its cage – he didn't want to overreact and cause irreparable damage.

He knocked a few times before entering and spotted her blonde hair, illuminated by the desk lamp, in the darkened room.

"Anya," he said by way of greeting. His usually jovial tone had darkened to something grim.

The woman had already turned around and was eying him carefully. Cole could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew why he was here, and that she'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Cole opened his mouth, but no words came out. There was a lot he wanted to say, but, even through his anger, his didn't let himself blurt out the hurtful things that beat against his teeth. He pursed his lips and watched Anya with narrowed eyes.

"I'm guessing this is about Baird?" She finally said.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "It is. Was there some reason you went after him like that?"

"He deserved it." Anya answered, rising from her seat. "Just because you and Marcus handle him with kids gloves doesn't mean I have to."

Cole's brow shot up at her tone and he shook his head disbelievingly. "What is _going on_ with you?" he asked, his confusion taking his voice up an octave. "You've been such a _bitch_ lately – and I say that with care."

"Nothing is going on with me, Cole. I just don't feel obligated to kiss Baird's ass."

"That's a bold-faced lie if I ever heard one, girl." Cole crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at the older woman. "I know for a fact that Baird hasn't done anything to you - your paths don't even cross – but you've been nothing but antagonistic to him these last few months. There must be a reason."

Anya's only answer was to scoff and avert her gaze.

"I don't claim to know you that well, but it seems to me that you're mad about something else and taking it out on him – and that ain't right."

"Are you really here trying to psychoanalyze me, Cole? Really?"

"No, I'm here to tell you to back up off of Baird. He doesn't deserve this shit from you." Cole leaned in to her space, searing her with a hot glare. "You're mad at the world and your place in it-that's your business-but at least have the _lady-balls_ to deal with your shit the right way. Baird wasn't put on this planet to bear the brunt of your displaced anger. You need to handle your business, Anya, like a fucking _adult_."

He saw a flicker of surprise in Anya's eyes – he was never so forceful or spoke so crassly, leaving the extremely foul language to Baird – before they shuttered over and a look of anger filled their depths.

"Screw off, Cole. I'll talk to Baird any way I see fit," she snarled. "Hell, it's not like he has the courtesy to be polite to anyone. Why don't you go scold _him_?"

Cole felt the simmer of anger deep in his gut: at Anya's attitude, and the fact that she was right about Baird's behavior. He'd never been 'nice', but it was something that people accepted about him. Cole has always just written most of it off as Baird being socially retarded, but Anya made it sound as if it was something he did on purpose - something borne of arrogance.

"Okay, you don't like the way he acts. So what? That gives you the right to throw Marlowe's suicide in his face? And to use his parents as a weapon against him? If anyone is out of line here, Anya, it's you. Who the hell do you think you are?" Cole spat out.

He spotted the flicker of guilt that darted through her eyes at the mention of her earlier conversation with the engineer. "That may have been too far, but - "

"_May have_? You're not sure if telling Baird that that kid's death was on his hands or reminding him of how his parents treated him was too far? Let me clear it up for you. It. Was. Too. Far." Cole leaned towards her and crossed his arms. "And the fact that you're too chicken-shit to admit it doesn't speak very highly of you."

Anya stepped back from him again, not liking having her actions tossed into her face. She looked for something to sally back with, but that small pit of remorse that she'd felt since she cruelly tossed those words at Baird stayed her tongue.

"You're a bully. You knew exactly where he was weak and you hit him there as hard as you could. And for no other reason than that _you felt like it_. Regardless of Baird's poor social grace, no one deserves to be treated that way."

The angry Thrashball player pulled back from her, then, and made his way to the exit.

"I wish I had Baird's vocabulary so I could express just how much of a disappointment you are right now," he spat at her over his shoulder before slamming the door shut behind him.


	9. A Bitter Cup

**AN:** **Well, this chapter came in quite a bit faster than the last, yes? We hope you guys like it. Now, down to the serious things: First, we would like to thank you guys for your support – it blows our minds that people actually read and enjoy what we write. Second, we feel that it's fair to let you know that some very big decisions are being made about whether we continue to write/post for this fiction. We know that we have a few very loyal, very awesome readers who take the time to give us feedback – and we love you guys. May you travel to a candy sunset on the back of a beautiful Pegasus. However, we wonder if this site is the best place for us. There's a marked dearth of reviews for this story, and not hearing from you guys makes it hard to write, because we wonder if anyone cares about the tale. This is something we do in our down time without payment, so we depend on feedback from you lot to keep us going. We are writing for **_**you**_** and it's time for us to take stock of our writer/reader relationship. In short, without reader support, we're not as creative or driven to provide new and interesting chapters for BtS. This chapter will be something of a litmus test, and the reaction to it will help us come to our final decision. It's a heartfelt plea for more feedback from you wonderful readers, not because we just want a great big number next our story, but because hearing from you guys is like being swaddled in clouds made of cotton candy and happiness. Please know that this IS NOT, by any means, a threat. We just want you all to know how we feel and why we feel the way we do. So, please, enjoy the new chapter and, **_**pretty please**_**, let us know about it - even if it's just a couple of sentences.**

**KW**

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><p>"It's beautiful, isn't it? I never thought we'd get to sit and relax on a beach. Not after Vectes," Private Celia Sanders said quietly. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes to the sparkling sun above. She felt the heat of the sand through her civvies and gave a contented sigh. It was a gorgeous day. The sky was a uniform blue, uninterrupted by a single cloud, and the heat magnified the sweet scents of the myriad of flowers.<p>

"I wouldn't get too comfortable, Cel. You know as well as I do that this place is messed up. It's a pretty picture, but it hides some fucked-up shit," her counterpart returned. Jetty Cork braced her elbows on her knees and eyed the cerulean water with suspicion. "Everything here is just a cover up and I don't plan to forget that anytime soon. Besides, what good are these white sand beaches? Hell if I _ever_ see any hot-ass men walking around shirtless."

"Tell me about it. Christ, I haven't gotten laid in...Well, in such a long time that it's embarrassing."

"Well, just start spreading your legs like that slut Gina – she doesn't seem to be lacking for male company. I'll bet her lady bits are so stretched - "Jetty cut herself off and stared at the nearby grouping of flowering bushes that lined the walkways.

"What?" Cel asked, confused by her friends sudden silence. "What's wrong?"

"I...I think I saw something."

"What? Like a pervy Peeping Tom?" Cel let herself fall backwards into the sand. "Quick, let's make out and fondle each other. We can give him a show," she said, reaching out toward the other girl's chest.

"Stop, Celia," Jetty hissed, slapping her hands away. "I'm serious. I think we should go."

Celia's grin dropped when she noticed the genuine concern and fear in the other woman's eyes. She glanced again at the innocent looking bushes before letting Jetty haul her to her feet.

"You got your sidearm with you?" Jetty asked, pulling hers from her holster.

"No. I didn't think I'd need it..." Celia answered abashedly, receiving a disapproving glare from her friend.

"Ok, well, it's probably nothing," Jetty said, trying to sound reassuring. "Just...walk behind me, alright?"

The two women started off towards the major through-way, the nose of Jetty's snub leading the way. They moved fairly quickly, darting glances at the shadows made by the various shrubs and succulents that dotted the pathway.

"Jetty," Celia called in an unsure tone, "I think I saw it, too"

Jetty stole a glance over her shoulder at the fair skinned woman and followed her gaze out to the dense flora.

"Ok. Ok. Let's just... let's just run for it. Come on."

The two women were turning back towards their destination when a high-pitched screech tore through the air, startling the two. Suddenly, the greenery was alive with movement and noise – the squeaks and whistles punctuated with deep snarls and growls.

"_Run_."

The duo sprinted off, their increasingly fast-paced breathing accompanied by the percussion of the boots pounding on the concrete. Soon, Jetty could feel a fine sheen of sweat on her darker skin and the burn of acid in her muscles. The hub was in sight, they only had to push a little longer...

"_Jetty_!" Came a panicked cry from behind her.

She turned just in time to see a dark shape wrestle a struggling, screaming Celia to the ground. Time slowed as she watched the Hybrid take a powerful swipe at the back of her friend's head, its sharp claws cutting her scalp away from her skull. Her friend continued to scream and reach for her, but the second hit bought her silence with a sickening crunch.

Jetty froze as the monster sat on its haunches and screamed at her. She was unable to react, unable to move as the animal made a wild lunge towards her body.

A loud boom sounded in her ears and the Hybrid flew backwards, hurt but very much alive. Hands grabbed at her shoulders and pulled her away from the scene and towards the safety of the hub, but Jetty couldn't make herself run. She kept looking back at her dead, bleeding friend – her friend that she had failed to protect.

"Get out of here! Go! _Go_!"

She barely heard the soldier yelling at her. Even the familiar _rat-a-tat_ of the lancer and the _boom-kak_ of the gnasher were muted, hardly penetrating the fog she found herself in. Jetty watched from a few paces away as the soldiers finally put down the thing that killed Celia. She watched it twitch and jerk in its death throes. It was a hollow victory.

"What the fuck? When did they start coming out in the daytime?"

"I don't know, but can't stay here - there might be more of them."

A vaguely familiar face filled Jetty's line of vision.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?" Came the rapid fire questions.

Jetty couldn't answer; her attention was glued to the still-twitching Hybrid and the utterly still body of her best and oldest friend. Suddenly, a white-hot rage filled her and she began to shake. Her senses sharpened to the point of pain. The red of Celia's blood staining the stone was bright, the gradient of different shades of crimson shimmering in the sunlight. The metallic smell of spent shell casings and gun powder threatened to simultaneously choke her and make her vomit. Hot tears spilled from her eyes and her fingers clenched the grip of her snub pistol.

"Hey," the unnamed soldier soothed, gently working the gun out of her hand, "It'll be fine. Let's get you home, ok?"

Jetty finally allowed herself to be turned away from the gruesome scene and lead back to the hub. She distantly heard the crackle of one of her rescuers comm unit as he called in the attack

"Somebody had better find Fenix," he said, "He'll want to know we lost another gear."

* * *

><p>After getting the guilt trip from, of all people, <em>Cole-<em>Anya expected to find Marcus waiting for her when she finally slunk away from the comm office block last night. They hadn't said much the night before, both of them too exhausted to do anything other than collapse on the bed after dealing with the fresh wave of attacks, both human and Hybrid alike. She had waited in their bed until midnight, fighting conflicting desires to both vent her frustration and jump his bones when he arrived. The squeak of the pipes had woken her up with a start, and a quick glance at her watch confirmed that it was nearly ten o'clock the next morning.

She contemplated barging in on his long shower before retreating to the sitting area to nurse her wounded feelings. _Why did he avoid me last night?_ Anya was sure she knew the answer. Guilt zipped through her stomach again, but she steadfastly ignored it and glanced at the pile of gear next to the bathroom door, noting the soggy kit and the lines of salt residue crusting the shoelaces of his boots.

_Would he really go for a night dip with all of these fucking Hybrids around? He's lucky he wasn't killed!_ Even as she pictured the monstrosities, she could see them leaving Marcus alone as he stood for hours gazing into the sea with flinty, hollow eyes, waging battle against his eternal demons as the tide rose and fell. Didn't feral animals recognize savageness in other creatures?

_Romanticizing your man, eh, Anya?_ She asked herself sarcastically.

Regardless of where she was sitting in their room, Marcus' eyes would find her immediately when he emerged from his shower. When he sauntered out minutes later wreathed in steam, ruffling a towel through his dark hair, he shot her a cursory glance, and his habitual frown deepened.

"Spit it out, Anya. Say your piece," Marcus intoned in a bored voice as he shifted through his wet clothes with a toe.

Her emotions flared at his dismissiveness. _How could he be so casual? Does he just not give a shit at all that I was worried about him? _

"Petulance doesn't look good on you, Marcus. You and Baird have the emotional range of a rock," she spat.

"If I had feelings, they'd be hurt," Marcus observed dryly. "But this can't really be all about Baird. I hope not. Because that would lead to an _awkward_ conversation."

"Baird is a selfish prick who can't take anything seriously."

"Yeah, Baird's a brat who looks after his own ass. Everyone knows that. Why don't you?" It was an honest question.

"I'm tired of Baird always needing you to step in and handle his business."

"That's what Delta does. Makes no difference whose business it is."

Anya scoffed. "You're saying you don't care that his flapping mouth offends everything except the machines? You've complained about him before!"

"Look, Baird's in a bad way right now, and you didn't make it any easier with your little fireworks show a few days ago. Can't you just leave him alone?"

"Why is everything about Baird lately? Why is he getting the lion's share of your attention? Does nothing and no one else matter except for the King Asshole and his collection of ego ribbons?"

"I'm worried he'll fucking kill himself, Anya! Jesus Christ!" Marcus shouted. He jammed a finger in her face. "And I don't want to hear anything about how that could be a good thing. Not. One. Word. You overreacted and hit him with too many shots you had no right to take."

"Gee, thanks, Marcus. Did you run into Cole while out finding your soul in the waves?" Anya bit back, the guilt in her throat ratcheting higher with each passing second. Now she was lashing out at Marcus, after she had spent all night worrying over him?

"Anya, why are you being such a bitch? Where is this coming from?" When she didn't respond, Marcus sighed and wrapped the towel snugly around his hips. "Are you trying to tell me something, comparing me to your favorite blonde?" Marcus rumbled.

"I just want time with you!" Anya shouted.

It was Marcus' turn to be confused. "You see me every night. We sleep side by side. We might as well be-Anya, you're not seeing things right."

She felt a sharp pang in her chest at the way he danced around the unspoken word-marriage. _What's wrong, little Anya? Sad that Marcus doesn't give a fig about wedding bells?_ the nasty voice of insecurity whispered in her head. She focused on the healing cut on his neck, and wrestled that particular thought back into its cage. Those idyllic daydreams would ruin her if she indulged them, ruin what she had fought for most of the years of her life to preserve.

Marcus titled his head and caught her gaze, sensing a shift in the conversation when she didn't rocket back with a retort. The damage had already been done, she realized. _I've set myself up to fail. You know what they say about good intentions..._

He sighed heavily, and picked at the threads of the towel. "Anya..."

She knew he was lost. He was always adrift in these rare moments of conflict, unsure of how to proceed. Other men were just confused-Marcus was trying to connect feelings to emotional receptors that just weren't there. It made her feel every inch of Cole's guilt, heaped on top of her own.

"This isn't what-this isn't what I pictured-" she mumbled, all of her well-reasoned arguments falling apart as she struggled to express them. "Just, never mind. This is stupid. I feel stupid. I hope the ocean kept you company last night," she said stiffly.

Marcus looked pained. "Anya, don't do this. Just...say what you need say."

"I did. You didn't understand."

He made an impatient noise, and the mad dog flashed briefly in his eyes. "Then help your stupid rock to understand. This shit doesn't come easy for me."

"This isn't what I expected. If the war was ever truly over, I mean. I thought it would be...different," she finished lamely.

"I wish it could have been different, Anya, believe me." He grabbed his boltok by the barrel from the nearby chair and held it out to her. "But this is what I am. I don't know how to be anything else. What you see is what you get with me."

"You could try to-"

"What do you want from me, Anya? I'm not Dom. He was good at this stuff. I never have been. I think you've been seeing what you want to see."

"If you just made the effort to-"

"What do you think 'we' even are on my end except for extreme effort?"

"You make it sound like work," she said reproachfully.

Marcus visibly calmed himself. "Anya, honey, it _is _work. For me. I'm as fucked-up as they come."

Anya licked her lips and darted a glance away as tears sprang to her eyes. "I thought we would have more time together, that I wouldn't have to share you as much," she said in a small voice.

"That was never a possibility, and you know it."

She cringed at the words and turned her gaze to the carpet, marveling at how easily she turned into a teenager around Marcus. "I hoped things would be different."

"It's not stupid to hope, Anya. But it's stupid to blind yourself to reality. I can be...myself with you," he admitted haltingly, brow furrowed in concentration. "I don't have to be 'Fenix' with you. Whatever I am, whatever survived The Slab...it was always yours."

His words wrenched her heart from her chest, and the carpet clouded in her vision. The reality of their lost future was utterly unbearable. _How can I lose something I never had? _But it hurt just the same. "Marcus, I love you. But...we're so broken."

Silence layered over both of them, and Anya's heart broke again when she wasn't disappointed that Marcus didn't echo her words. He had said it first, after all, in that indirect way of his. And she knew he meant it. _I knew all along what I would be getting, throwing my lot in with Marcus. When did I start thinking it would change?_

Anya's earpiece vibrated in her ear as Marcus' rumbled on top of the side table. She recognized the voice speaking; Grady, one of her men.

"All call signs, Fenix, Delta, Sigma-report in. I have confirmed contact with Hybrids on the western beaches just twenty minutes ago. Repeat, daytime Hybrid attack. One fatality. Stroud, get your ass down to the hot room, ma'am."

She exchanged a look with Marcus. "We're always getting interrupted," she said with a wan smile.

"Anya, wait." Marcus said.

"A broken clock is right twice a day...right?" she said quietly, not turning to see his reaction as she drew the door closed behind her.

* * *

><p>Baird had just pulled his thick gloves back on, ready to tackle the knife-sharp edges of his current project, when Jace landed a heavy hand on his shoulder.<p>

"Baird, just got a call from Anya. Sounds like there was a mishap down by the beach. Marcus is calling everyone home."

"A _mishap_? What happened?" Baird asked, intrigued, but irritated at being interrupted.

"An attack. Hybrids, she said." Jace, ever the soldier, was already casting his eyes about their surroundings, looking for any sign of trouble.

"Hybrids? In the daytime? This is new behavior -"

"Man, we can discuss this shit to your heart's content once we get to safety. Get your guys, we need to roll."

Briefly, Baird bristled at being bossed around by the younger man, but tramped down on the feeling. If Hybrids were about, then he and his mostly unarmed and unarmored men needed to make themselves scarce. As it was, if anything went down, Jace was the only one of them with any real firepower.

Stratton had been assigned to them as their 'armed guard' – a joke if Baird had ever heard one. He didn't think Jace was incompetent, it'd been proven time and again that he was, at the least, a reliable guy to have at your back, and, at his best, someone who would move up the ranks quickly. That is, if ranks still existed as anything beyond a bunch of ex-patriots using the terms as a shared security blanket. Still, one soldier did not qualify as a security detail. Baird has told Marcus as much, but only received a 'Shut the fuck up, Baird' in return.

The engineer watched Jace pace the bay doors and depressed his ever-present comm, wincing at the crackle of the opening line.

"Wrap up what you're doing, guys. We're leaving. Two minutes."

He felt a dull anxiety come over him as he took off his gloves and gear. Jace was stroking the trigger guard of his lancer, ready to open fire on anything suspicious. It occurred to Baird that Jace, regardless of his joking nature, took the safety of others very seriously.

The rest of the small engineering team trickled in, hefting duffle bags and wearing similar baffled expressions. Never before had their work day been cut short – even so many months into their forced residence on the island, there was a lot that needed to be fixed or built, not leaving the team much down time outside of scheduled time off.

"What's going on, Baird?" Carmona asked in his lilting accent.

"Hybrid attack, apparently. We don't have a lot of details, but King Fenix is summoning all of his subjects back to the castle."

"Shit..." the shorter man murmured, fingering the strap of his bag worriedly.

"Everyone present and accounted for?" Baird bellowed.

A chorus of affirmatives sounded back to him and he gave Jace a curt nod. They were ready to leave. The group formed up into a phalanx with Jace taking point and the nose of his rifle leading the way. Each of the engineers had pulled out and prepped their various side arms; they knew that the pistols had very little stopping power against a charging Hybrid, but were unwilling to march along like damsels.

The group moved quickly and quietly through the foliage, heading for the stable where the pack-horses were kept. The shifting shadows and intermittent sounds took on a heavy, forbidding quality as they neared the point of no return: Too far from the workshop to run back – the only way was forward and there wasn't any telling what was ahead of them.

A slight breeze had swept down over the far off cliffs and rustled the undergrowth, putting the men even more on edge. The branches swayed and danced along with the whims of the wind, making it difficult to discern natural versus unnatural movement.

The group was deathly quiet as they raced along. Baird, bringing up the rear, checked behind them at regular intervals. His skin felt tight and hot – nerves, he guessed. Or just his you're-about-to-get-fucked meter trying to warn him. He cast his gaze about, trying to find anything out of the ordinary; he couldn't shake the sense of dread that had come over him. He was sure they were being watched. Herded, even. He thought, with sudden clarity, that this must be how cows felt when they were being led to slaughter.

The garage came into view when the copse of trees broke and presented open ground. They weren't far from it – if they ran, they could reach it in three minutes, tops. Still, the group sensed that running into the open would be a lot like wrapping themselves in bacon and offering themselves up on a platter. If they were being tracked by Hybrids, they'd be ripe for the picking.

At the head of the group, Jace took a deep breath and glanced back at his charges. They were all seasoned gears, but it was his job to protect them – and he would.

"Ok, looks like we got a short distance of open ground ahead of us. We're going to take it at a run. There are eight of us, so we'll need two vehicles. Who's driving?"

Two privates, Westmoreland and Ngo, raised their hands to volunteer.

"Right. You two head straight for the drivers seats. Don't stop to check on anything, just get in and get those pack-horses running. We need to be gone in a hurry." He turned his attention to the rest of the group. "Everyone else, we'll post up at the door – we don't want anything sneaking in behind us and ruining our day. We'll load up two by two. Got it?"

Baird nodded and checked his boltok again; taking a mental count of the ammunition he had with him. Maybe twenty rounds, not counting the ones already loaded. If they had to make a stand – it was going to be an awfully short one. This was either very good or very bad.

The men realigned themselves, ready to make for the stable. Jace held up a clenched fist and glanced about the field, looking for obvious trouble. He gave the men a three beat countdown before slicing his open hand forward – the signal to move.

The eight men sprinted for the garage, their bobbing guns leading them on. Baird's heart was already beating faster than normal from the anxiety, and running at a sprint didn't help. He idly wondered if he should secretly consult Hayman for some sort of drug therapy. Anti-anxiety pills might be just what he needed because getting all tight-chested over every little thing was quickly becoming a –

His inane thoughts were interrupted when the body of the gear ahead of him suddenly crashed into his path and tripped him up. Baird went down in an undignified tangle, rolling once before his momentum was arrested. The other soldier sat up with a bewildered expression.

"What the fuck – "

A black shape cannoned towards the man, bowling him over again.

"Fuck!" Baird scrambled over to the man pulling him up and encouraging him to run. "Stratton! We've got company!"

The dumbstruck gear was sporting bleeding crisscross slashes along his face and neck. Nothing deep enough to kill, but enough to bleed like a motherfucker and most likely leave scars. Baird yanked the other man along, catching up to the huddle of engineers who'd reached the concrete outside the garage.

Jace watched over the group with his lancer drawn, scanning the area for whatever had attacked them. Westmoreland and Ngo, as planned, made beelines for two of the pack-horses, haphazardly tossing out random boxes and odds and ends to make room for the rest of the team.

Baird frog-marched the bleeding gear toward Ngo and placed him roughly into the front passenger seat.

"Don't move from that spot until we get to Hayman. I mean it."

The bleeding soldier only nodded and blinked at the blonde. Baird sighed and shook his head.

"Ngo, find something for him to press to those scratches. He's bleeding everywhere."

He saw a swift nod from Ngo over the hood of the truck and sidestepped over the detritus on the floor to take a place at the open door of the garage. Jace was still just outside the opening, keeping a vigilant eye out for more Hybrids. As planned, the engineering squad loaded two by two until it was just Baird and Jace left.

"C'mon, man. It's just us now," Baird stated, pulling the younger man back. "Let's go."

Jace nodded and turned towards the vehicles, dropping his lancer out of an offensive position. Something black streaked through Baird peripheral vision, darting into the garage with them.

"Shit!" he yelled, bringing his boltok to bear. "Jace move!"

Baird was already back peddling away from the Hybrid, but Jace had no chance of getting clear. The Hybrid was already upon him before he could turn around. The force of the tackle sent Jace's lancer skittering across the floor, stopping nearby Baird's feet. He only had a second's glimpse of the foot-long spine that sprang from the Hybrid's forearm before the creature skewered Jace, punching fluidly through the fabric, skin and muscle. Jace loosed a gurgling scream and scrabbled at the thing stabbing into his chest. His brown eyes nearly bulged from his skull as the fiery agony spread through his body.

Almost in a flash, the Hybrid pulled away from the bleeding, shaking soldier. The spine separated neatly from the Hybrid's arm, leaving several inches of the gruesome spear sticking out of Jace's chest. Baird stared in shocked silence as Jace staggered and crumpled to the ground in a shivering heap. He was snapped out of his stupor at the sound of doors opening as the team exited the vehicles and drew their weapons.

Carmona was the first to break free of the paralysis that gripped the engineers, swinging his sidearm around and squeezing off several shots that roared in everyone's ears. Whatever he was yelling was lost in the jumble of Sarfuthian and Tyran stuttering from his lips. Carmona advanced, slamming a fresh clip into his snub and continuing to lay into the beast.

"Be careful, you'll hit Jace!"

Carmona only shrugged off the warning. At this range, he was going to hit exactly what he was aiming for. The other engineers followed his lead and began taking quick, careful shots at the monster before them. It staggered back, but didn't fall, jerking each time a bullet made contact. Finally, most of their meager ammo spent, a thick silence fell over the garage.

The Hybrid shook itself, blood flying everywhere, and stepped over Jace's prone form, tail swishing through the air, head tilted to the side, like a dog alerting to a high-pitched whistle. _The fucker's curious_, Baird thought numbly. He picked up the abandoned lancer and took aim. He laid into the Hybrid, his hands never wavering. It gave a screeching cry and lunged for the blonde. Its head snapped to the side in mid-flight, the movement throwing off its descent.

Carmona had thrown his empty boltok like rock, landing a solid hit on the side of the things head. Baird took advantage of its momentary disorientation and moved to stand over it, emptying the rest of the clip into its face.

The Hybrid finally stopped moving, and laid spread eagle on the ground. Its head was gone, only the lower jaw and tongue remained – the rest was in bloody chunks that had sprayed across the room.

Baird heaved a sigh and glanced over to Jace. A couple of engineers were already seeing to him, moving him carefully into the backseat of the packhorse. Baird's concern grew when he notices thin, black tendrils weaving a pattern underneath Jace's brown skin. His face and body had begun to bloat and every breath was accompanied by a deep rattle. Baird turned his eyes from the hideous picture his friend made and took his place in the vehicle.

"Get him to Hayman. I'll radio Anya," he said darkly.

* * *

><p>The next hour was a blur for Baird. Everyone was rushing about looking either angry or confused. The engineering team had dropped Jace off with Hayman, whose utter lack of vitriol when she saw him scared Baird more than anything. At least when the doctor was cursing and belittling you, you had some measure of surety that she could help. Her silence, though, was usually a precursor to death – it meant that she didn't think she could help.<p>

Carmine had rushed over when he heard his friend was hurt. Baird gave him a fast run-down of what had happened and watched the redhead's face pale as he went on. Carmine gave an eerie jerk and rolled his head when the story ended.

"Why would Marcus send him by himself?" he asked, looking away from Baird. "Why would he do such an irresponsible thing?"

"Hey, no one saw this coming. All the evidence showed us that these things only came out at night. As far as we knew, we were safe as long as the sun was up. You can't blame Marcus for this."

Carmine turned cold, hazel eyes onto Baird, fury darkening their depths to a burnt gold.

"Yes, I can."

He pushed passed the blonde towards the observation room adjacent to where Jace was being treated.

Baird heaved a sigh. He knew that this was going to come to a head and it all depending on whether or not Jace survived. The engineer had no desire to see how a fight between those two hulking giants would turn out; Clay, for all his 'aw, shucks' ways, was a killer – a damned good one. A physical altercation would only end if one of them was too injured to fight or dead.

He got the sense that things were beginning to unravel. The false sense of safety had finally been shattered and now everyone was about to show their true colors; the group's loyalty and bravery were about to be tested.

Baird rolled his shoulders and turned to escape through the doors at the end of the hallway. He needed to leave. The smell of blood and rubbing alcohol brought back too many memories and he could taste the despair in the air. He made his way back to the nearby hotel, wanting only to shower and forget.

* * *

><p>Marcus stood like a statue in the middle of the medical wing. A deep frown was etched into his pale skin and his brow shadowed his eyes. The area was alive with activity; gears rushed to and fro, adding their voices to the din of noise that threatened to drown out Marcus' thoughts.<p>

The influx of injured soldiers had forced the medical team to create new temporary rooms using sheets as separators and privacy screens. Marcus could hear the pitiful moans from the wounded, and the tearful cries of the ones who'd lost a friend or lover. It was driving him crazy. Every part of him wanted to leave – to run down to his new sanctuary where the waves met the sand, but he stood firm. He _deserved_ to be here. He needed to bear witness to the agony he'd caused.

Some of the passing gears cast him cold glances, blame displayed clearly in their eyes. None approached him, thanks to his 'Marcus Fenix' mystique, but he would've preferred that someone – anyone – yell at him. Tell him he's irresponsible or a murderer. Anything, any punishment to help him feel like he was paying for his mistakes.

His day had gone from bad to worse. The argument with Anya was still unresolved; her words about them being broken still echoed around in his head – one more failure on his part. One more thing he couldn't save. Then, when they got the call about the attack, all he could do was try to manage everyone from the comms room. He had no real data, just ten or fifteen different, panicked reports from different areas of the island.

He directed all teams to head back to the hotel, assuming that they'd all be safer if they could get back to the fortified stronghold. He was wrong. Once the teams got on the move, the attacks began. The comms lit up with different gears radioing for help or reporting losses; most of those had ended with screaming and gunfire.

All told, they'd lost – _he'd_ lost forty seven soldiers. Thirty six of them were gears. The rest were Gorasni. Marcus knew deep in his gut that this was the start of something bad. People were angry and scared, and, judging by the looks he was getting, their trust in him was badly shaken.

He'd seen Carmine earlier, but the man wouldn't even acknowledge him beyond the searing glare he stabbed him with. They'd both been on their way to see about Jace, but after the brush-off from Carmine, Marcus felt the unspoken 'Not Welcome' as surely as if it'd been tattooed onto his face.

And so, he found himself here, standing in the middle of the hubbub, being treated very much like a pariah. His stomach burned and boiled with guilt. He was responsible for these people – he was supposed to keep them safe. Instead, he kept getting them killed. Marcus' blunt nails dug into the skin of his hand underneath his tightly crossed arms. Now, more than ever, he wished someone else had been put in charge. He wished someone else had to carry the burden of several hundred souls.

Marcus heaved a blustery sigh and dropped his arms. There was nothing for him here, except disdain. He turned towards the exit and beat an even-paced, but shameful retreat. He had to find a way to fix this. He couldn't lose anyone else – it was time to be rid of the Hybrids.

* * *

><p>Damon let the door slam shut behind him after he'd entered his room and pressed his hands to his face, taking in a deep breath.<p>

_Poor, fucking Jace. _

He chuffed out a mirthless laugh and glanced around the space. It seemed off - as if everything he was seeing was a great big lie – a nice, shiny veneer covering the pus-laden infection that was their life. Another friend hung in the balance. Damon couldn't see an end to it. Who else had to suffer before they figured out what to do?

He pushed away from the door and slowly made his way to the bathroom, stripping off his soiled clothes as he went and tossing each article into the general vicinity of the clothes hamper. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror – a new habit he'd picked up since Marlowe – and slinked towards the shower, turning the water to its hottest setting.

He winced when the blistering water hit his skin, but ducked his head under the spray anyway. He knew he wouldn't feel clean unless he boiled all the dirt and blood from his form. After a vigorous scrubbing, he leaned his head against the wall and watched the dirty water swirl around his toes and race for the drain.

Finally, he sighed, turned off the shower, and stepped onto the cushioned rug that took up most of the bathroom floor. He gave his skin a cursory pat down before wrapping the oversized towel around his waist and stepping into the cool air of his bedroom.

"Hey," came the soft greeting.

Damon started slightly at the voice, darting his eyes over to the shadowed bed. The darkness shifted and solidified as Sam came into view.

"Hey," Damon answered, taking in her dark, wet hair. She was growing it out, he noticed, her bangs falling into her dark eyes.

"I heard about Jace," she commented quietly, tracking his movement around the room. "I can't believe it."

"Yeah, it wasn't…pretty." Damon let the towel drop from his hips, too preoccupied with the lightning storm of thoughts in his head to be self-conscious about his nudity. He pulled a baggy pair of pajama bottoms from a drawer and slid them on before turning to face his guest. "It was so fast… no one could've reacted in time. There wasn't anything we could do…"

Sam's eyes trailed up his naked torso, taking in the newly won cuts and bruises that mingled with the purpling marks from the fight with the Goransi. She hefted a sigh as Damon neared and set himself down next to her on the bed.

She hooked a leg over his, and ran her fingers along the abrasion on his wrist.

"Should I feel guilty that I'm glad it wasn't you?"

Damon laughed quietly and watched her fingers trace the discolored skin.

"There are lots of people thinking that about someone. It's natural," he answered, suppressing a shiver.

Sam shifted further into his space and pulled his face to hers, pressing their foreheads together.

"I'm glad you're safe."

"Yeah," he acknowledged, letting his hands fall to her thigh.

He could feel her breath ghosting across his lips, her fingertips playing in the soft hair at the nape of his neck and let his eyes fall shut. Finally, he turned towards her and pushed her further up the bed, covering most of her body with his.

Damon nuzzled his face into her stomach, taking in her scent, and moved up to press a kiss between her breasts. He felt the rise and fall of Sam's chest as he rested there, cradled between her legs. Sam carded her fingers in his over-long blonde hair before twisting her fingers into it, pulling him up to her face.

He met her halfway as she leaned in to kiss him, feeling her sigh in relief. Her hands slid from his hair to his shoulders, pressing firmly into his flesh as if she was memorizing him. He winced when she aggravated the old bruises that decorated his skin and nipped at her lip in retaliation before soothing the hurt with the tip of his tongue.

Sam let out a soft, appreciative groan at the contact and licked at his lips in invitation. Damon angled his head and deepened their kiss, reaching behind him to hike her legs over his hips and settling against her fully.

She ground her pelvis against his in encouragement, hoping he'd finally give her what she'd been craving for months. Damon's hands tightened against her flesh, digging into her thighs. Sam shuddered when he released her and trailed his fingers up over her hips and underneath her shirt. His exploration ended just below her breasts, prompting Sam to arch her chest slightly, offering herself to him.

Damon pulled back from their kiss, making Sam slump and heave a frustrated sigh. He shot her a half smirk and placed a chaste kiss upon her lips.

"Why the rush, Samantha?" he asked quietly, nibbling around her neck.

Sam felt her lower lips immediately swell and slicken with moisture at the husky quality of his voice. Damon slowly continued the upward slide of his hands, pulling her shirt up and off. He took a moment to admire the curve of her breasts before lavishing each with attention, nipping and sucking on the supple skin.

Sam moaned as her core gave an involuntary convulsion, mentally willing Damon to move his hands lower and finish what he'd started. Everywhere he touched, he left a burning mark, as if he was branding her. She shivered in response to the juxtaposition of his heated hands and mouth to the cool air around them.

Finally, as if hearing her silent request, Damon hooked his thumbs around the waistband of her shorts and underwear and began to shimmy them down her legs, moving away from her only enough to pull them off fully and toss them to the floor beside their bed.

Sam shivered and felt her skin goose-bump as Damon slid down her body to lap at the wetness gathered between her legs. An unexpected whimper fell from her mouth when he nibbled at her inner lips. Her walls clenched again, the contrast of the sharpness of the bites and the softness of his tongue sending her into a near frenzy. A blustery sigh escaped from her when that talented muscle slid into her and massaged the sensitive flesh. Her hips bucked as pleasure zinged up her nerves, trying to press him closer to her sex, needing more friction.

Lost in the pleasure of his ministrations, her eyes fluttered shut and she moved her hands to her breasts, running her fingertips over the superheated skin. Her hips kept up near constant movement, months of longing and sexual frustration overriding any sense of embarrassment she might have felt about being so obvious with her need for fulfillment.

She mewled at him when he moved from her core to kiss her, gripping him with her legs and gyrating against him desperately. Damon's lips moved against hers, leaving traces of her arousal for her to taste. Sam sighed as their flavors mingled, leaving a perfect bitter sweetness in her mouth. Her desire to reciprocate the pleasure and incite him to give her more took over, and she worked a hand between them and into his low slung pajamas, relishing the low, throaty growl he gave when she gripped his erection and gave it a firm squeeze.

Sam lifted herself slightly, forcing Damon to do the same, and began pushing at the top of his pants, cursing her limited reach when she failed to move them much below his defined obliques. Damon, noticing her struggle, moved to help and slid the cotton trousers down and kicked them off.

Sam took advantage of his momentary distraction and worked his swollen cock as much as she could in the restricted space. Damon hissed between his teeth and thrust into her hand before nudging it away and lying atop her. Sam groaned at the skin-to-skin contact and felt her heart begin to race in anticipation.

He leaned in to kiss her again, his body pressed against hers, her moisture wetting his head at the point of contact. He thrust against her lightly, giving only enough friction to drive her crazy, but not enough to satisfy her. Sam could practically _hear_ the 'please' that was beating against her lips. She was ready to beg for release, her arousal was so complete. Through her haze of _morepleasenow_, she noticed Damon sneaking a hand between them, his thumb slipping at her damp core, before taking hold of himself and guiding the head of his cock to her entrance.

Sam whimpered when he stopped his forward movement. She could feel him just inside of her, stretching her, but not moving any further. This time, the 'please' did escape her lips in a wanton, hoarse whisper.

Damon leaned down and caught the skin of her collar bone between his teeth, sucking hard enough to leave a lasting mark. He pushed into her at an achingly slow pace, the wet heat of her sheath forcing a quiet grunt from him. He loved the way her muscles clenched and gave way to him – encouraging the slow slip-slide of their joining. Part of him wanted to hook her legs over his shoulders and _take_ her, but a bigger part wanted to make it last as long as possible – to have everything she would give him.

Sam loosed a satisfied moan when Damon hilted inside of her. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered a frustrated '_finally_' when he pulled out slowly and pushed back in. Sam hooked her legs around him and tried to force a faster rhythm, but Damon wouldn't be rushed. He moved slowly and deliberately, feeling every centimeter of her core, measuring her responses to each change in direction and angle.

His unhurried pace was concurrently tortuous and the most erotic thing Sam had ever experienced. The crawling build of her orgasm had her vacillating between openly and loudly begging him for more, and panting from the ever-growing heat between them. A yelp escaped her when Damon unexpectedly changed the slant and speed of his thrust, stoking the fire that had been growing low in Sam's belly. He ended each inward push with a roll of his hips, ratcheting up her arousal with the stimulation of her clit.

Sam dug her nails into his shoulders and clenched her eyes shut, adrift in a sea of sensation. The air around them was thick with their combined natural scents and the unmistakable smell of sex. The faint _slap_ of their skin meeting at the apex of each plunge and tell-tale _squelch_ of Damon burying himself deep inside of her threatened to send her flying over the edge.

She kept up a murmured litany of nonsense words as her orgasm neared, feeling it growing from her toes and rushing up her body. Damon slipped his hands up her sweat slick body and sank his fingers into her dark hair, letting the locks twist around his fingers. He pulled Sam into a hot, open-mouthed kiss before giving the hair caught in his fists a firm tug.

A truncated scream flew from her lips as her inner walls quaked around Damon's cock. The slight pain had edged her over the precipice and sent her headlong into her release. She clutched at Damon as she rode out her orgasm, lifting her hips to meet his pounding thrusts before he tensed and spilled into her. His fingers tightened in her hair spasmodically as he came, sending aftershocks of pleasure zipping through Sam's body.

A wave of exhaustion washed over them both, their muscles relaxing in a way that can only be achieved after sexual satisfaction. Sam let her legs fall gracelessly from around Damon's waist, allowing him to slide out of her and move to lie at her side. His skin fairly glowed in the amber light from the lamp across the room, and Sam found that her chest ached with affection for him.

She moved closer to him, twining their legs together, and lifted her fingers to his face, tracing the contours of his lips, cheeks and eyes.

"You don't have to say it back, but… I love you, okay?" she told him quietly. She suddenly felt shy and silly, wondering if the confession came too soon.

Damon's eyes widened in surprise – he knew that Sam cared for him, but he hadn't expected her to drop the L-bomb first. He looked away from her briefly and took stock of his own feelings.

"That's a pretty serious declaration, Samantha, and I'm pretty fucked up, so I won't hold you to it," he started, tapping out a nervous beat on her hip. "But, for what it's worth, I'm pretty sure you're the only woman I could even fathom being with. Like, _ever_."

Silenced reigned for a long moment before Sam rent it with a high-pitched giggle.

"What?" Damon asked, confusion clear on his face.

"Damon, you're so…_silly_." Sam laughed, "You couldn't just say 'I love you, too', you had to turn it into some crazy, roundabout confession-on-the-sly."

"_Dude_…" he said and shot her an affronted look.

Sam pressed forward and planted a kiss on his lips, but it quickly became awkward when she couldn't stop laughing.

"You totally love me."

"Shut up, Samantha. I'm going to sleep." Damon huffed and buried his face into his pillow.

Sam curled herself into him, but continued to snicker, giddy from his confirmation of his feelings for her.

"Damon…" she called in a sing-song tone.

"Oh, my God, what?" came the muffled answer.

"Can you go turn the lamp off?"

"I hate you so much."

* * *

><p>Cole had been watching Baird since Marcus assembled them for "Delta briefing," or what Baird liked to call it-Delta breakfast. The Gears had assembled frequently for a morning briefing, but with Jace in limbo between life and death, and Clay totally lost in his anger-fueled Grub-Killer demeanor, 'Delta breakfast' was now an uncomfortably intimate affair. Sam was supervising one of the comm crews, and Anya was nowhere to be seen (as well she <em>shouldn't<em> be), and Marcus brooded at the end of the table.

Baird was often passively attentive during briefings, hearing everything that was said but focusing on whatever gadget he had in his pocket. Cole decided to leave Marcus be; the man had had plenty of problems without the nightmare that was yesterday. He focused his attention on the blonde seated to his left. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was different about Damon. But something _was_ different.

"Damon, don't take this the wrong way, but, why the happy face?"

The engineer twirled his fork through the eddies of syrup surrounding his perfectly-sized bites of pancake, a faraway look in his eyes. "I thought you wanted me to be happy, Cole," he said lightly.

Cole snorted. "This isn't happy. What you've got goin' on is..." he cast about for the right word. "relaxed?"

Baird gestured airily. "I can't be relaxed?"

"Uh, no. You can't." The Cole-Train rested his chin in his hand, eyes riveted on his friend. "C'mon, Damon. What's your secret? Meditation?"

Baird rolled his eyes and forked a few more pancakes onto his plate. "Cole going fishing? That's a new one."

Cole spread his hands wide. "Lake's been dry for years, baby. Can't blame a man for getting excited."

Baird gave his friend a disbelieving look. "Are you really _that_ interested in the details of my life, or is this part of your stupid surveillance plan?"

Cole's smile fell, and he looked equal parts regretful and resolved. "Just the way it is, Damon. I'm not apologizing for caring."

The engineer scowled and looked away. "Ok, ok. I'll bite. Christ."

"Something going on in the harbor?" a random Gear asked the group, interrupting Damon.

Cole stopped in the middle of stealing Baird's last pancake and eyeballed the young man critically. "What about the harbor?"

"Like a naval exercise?" the hapless private said, focused on spearing the 'meat' steak from the nearby serving dish. "The _Egar_ was turning hard to port and steaming from the harbor about, uh, ten minutes ago?"

A comical moment of silence ensued before the chair legs scraped _en masse _against the floor. There was a scrum at the doors, and Baird jostled Cole momentarily at the doorway before falling in behind him. "Hey, Cole-Train: don't think your theft will go unnoticed."

Cole cast him a look over his shoulder. "It ain't stealing if I didn't follow through, Damon. And you were avoiding my questions," he added pointedly as they made their way down to the harbor.

"Yeah, I was," Baird said, arresting the smile that was spreading across his face and twisting it into an unconvincing frown. He was saved from further questions by the absurd sight that greeted his eyes as they rounded the last building and the harbor came into view.

The _Egar Trescu_ had already left the harbor, her nose angling straight for open water. Gorasni scurried about the main deck like ants. Even from this distance, Baird could hear the whine and occasional stutter of her engines-a sign that his modifications, while obviously successful in getting the ship up and running, still needed fine-tuning.

"That fucking Indie traitor," Marcus growled. He pushed into a sprint and flew down the remainder of the steps and out onto the beach that fronted the network of docks, Cole and Baird close on his heels. A large crowd had gathered, every gaze fixated on the ship slowly diminishing on the horizon.

"Marcus, look," Baird said in disbelief, pointing to the front of the group. A sizable knot of bewildered Gorasni stared across the water stoically as their last hope abandoned them. In front of the Gorasni soldiers, a man was silhouetted against the rising sun, and even without the shadow of the uniform, Baird knew it would be Trescu.

"It wasn't desertion, Marcus. It was mutiny," he said, voicing everyone's thoughts. Some of the tension left Marcus' face, but he still looked capable of murder as he jostled Gears and Gorasni alike out of the way, making a beeline for Miran.

Maybe he was still feeling the aftereffects of his night with Sam, or maybe he had finally gotten several hours of deep sleep uninterrupted by his over-torqued brain. Whatever the cause was, he suddenly felt optimistic and free-wheeling. He feltgoddamn _cheerful._ A thought sprang into his head, and he reached out to grab Marcus' shoulder. The older man rounded on him impatiently.

"Lemme talk to him, Fenix. I think I know just what to say."

Marcus' eyebrows shot up. He squinted at Baird, trying to ferret out the reason for the engineer's request.

Baird patted Marcus' chest plate in reassurance, a grin on his face. "Trust me," he said easily, moving past his friend.

Marcus shot Cole a look. "Has Baird finally gone nuts?"

Cole blew out a breath, and shook his head. "I don't...I don't know. Should we hide all the sharp things?"

Marcus had sunk into his analytical mode, blue eyes darting back and forth. "Let's see what he does."

"Well, this has _got _to be a surprise for you," Baird said with false sympathy, throwing an arm around Trescu's shoulders. "I always figured that when that hunk of junk managed to leave, _you _would be on it. Life's a bitch, huh?"

Trescu said nothing, didn't even react to Baird's proximity.

"So, what happened? How is it that you are standing here, instead of at the helm?" Baird continued. "I hope you didn't leave your fancy pistol on board."

Wordlessly, Miran reached to his hip and dangled the vintage firearm from a shaky forefinger.

"Oh, good," Baird said when he saw it. "So...there's that."

"They left me." The timbre of his voice was so soft, so full of quiet agony, that it melted through Baird's high and left him feeling hollow.

"After a lifetime of sacrifice, I-" Trescu couldn't find the words. He gasped a few times, like he was on the verge of hyperventilating. The trembling barrel of the pistol edged upwards.

"Not thinking clearly," Baird said quickly as he wrapped his hand around the gun and pushed it down, the sight of the pistol drenching his guts in ice water. _One too many people around here trying to solve personal problems with bullets._

Miran did not resist. He was frighteningly weak, and bore no resemblance to the iron-willed general who had threatened him days ago. He turned dark eyes upon the engineer. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

Marlowe suddenly flashed in Baird's mind. "You're just a jack-ass, Trescu. I wouldn't wish mutiny on anyone. It was munity, right?"

Trescu shrugged. "Yes? I found out she was leaving the same time you did."

"Hey, were you the one who ordered the Gorasni death squad?" Baird asked, drawing away from the general. "Because if you did, this conversation is going to get kinda awkward. And bloody."

Trescu looked shocked, the faintest glimmer in the corner of his eyes. "What squad?"

"During the last Hybrid attack on the docks, a group of Gorasni tried to murder me. Really."

"I didn't know. I didn't know," Miran mumbled. The man was crumbling right in front of Baird. "This explains it. When Anton came to me, he was worried. He-"

"You didn't know what?" Baird asked.

"I didn't know that Anton was serious about the dissenters. That they were up to something. My people have always been divided. I thought...I thought with the respite..."

"The disgruntled Gorasni made plans to steal the ship?" Baird asked. It made sense. The logical side of his brain even approved the seditious plan. The ship had been Trescu's bargaining chip, both with his people and the Gears. His stomach flopped over when he realized belatedly that it had also been _their_ best chance to leave Azura. They were high and dry.

"They lured me off the ship. The engine repairs were progressing, but there are still electrical problems. She's floating, but hardly seaworthy. It's a foolish gamble. They can't make it to Gorasnaya-" Trescu explained, his voice nearly breaking as he mentioned his homeland.

_They can make it back to your country, they just abandoned you! OR They stole your last hope to return to Gorasnaya, and now they're going to run out of fuel and descend into cannibalism before the entire ship becomes a mausoleum. Yay!_

Baird wasn't sure if reassuring Trescu with either of those thoughts would be comforting. He clapped a hand on the general's shoulder with more feeling than he felt, and said "So you're stuck with us. Marcus will get you and your men set up in the hotel. Hope you don't mind rubbing shoulders with the socialists."

"It's come to that," Miran said, his tone edged in bitterness.

"Hey man, you could be dead," Baird offered.

Trescu stared at Baird with a strange expression. "I wonder if that wouldn't be better." He turned back to the horizon, the _Egar_ just a smudge against the strong waning light. "Maybe that's what these monsters are. Perhaps we aren't meant to survive."

"I think you've been spending too much time in your head," Baird said weakly, his heart pounding at the similarity of Trescu's words to Marlowe's. "Let's uh, get you moving. A hot shower can work miracles," he said lamely. When Trescu failed to move, a pang of uncharacteristic sympathy hit Baird in the gut. "C'mon, sir," he said without a trace of sarcasm, turning the bereft man around and angling him towards Marcus.

He quirked an eyebrow at Cole and focused on Marcus. "Long story short: we're all fucked. Some of the Gorasni got fed up with Trescu and decided to hijack the ship. We've got rooms, right Fenix?"

Marcus nodded slowly, his expression curiously blank. "Thanks, Baird," he told the blonde.

Just as quickly as his empathy had appeared, it vanished, leaving Baird feeling tight and irritated. Baird waved Marcus' thanks away. "Whatever. Just get this sad sack out of here. Christ." He stalked off down the beach to be alone. Marcus and Cole exchanged dark looks, communicating wordlessly as Cole began to wave the Indies over. Cole sent a quick worried glance at his friends retreating figure; Baird's cookie was still crumbling and no one could figure out why. The older man sighed through his nose and refocused his attention. He'd figure Baird out one of these days, but for now...damage control.


	10. Author's Note (new)

It's been a long time since we made that announcement about two weeks. We had every intention of honoring it, but it just wasn't to be. To be honest, it wasn't some real life tidal wave (though there've been many of those), we just lost the passion for the story we were telling. Even with all the really great ideas we had lined up and ready - we couldn't write them with any sincerity because our interest in the Gears 'verse, while still true and present, wasn't as active and _rabid_ as it once was. **Even now, we're only beginning to rekindle the excitement about it all** – and not because of the newly released game that neither of us bought (yet).

We could've kept writing and probably would've been finished, but the last half of the story would've been the biggest cup of hot garbage juice you readers had ever had to choke down. We didn't want that. We didn't want to sacrifice the quality and integrity of our painstakingly planned story just to keep churning out chapters. We didn't want to do that to you guys**, **and we didn't want to do that to ourselves – it wouldn't be fair.

However, we've started planning again, blowing up each other's cell phones with "I dreamed that this happened and Baird did this and Delta did that and wouldn't that be cool for BtS?!" Thinking about the story brings smiles to our faces, now, instead of grimaces or rolled eyes. We've even got a writing date planned.

So, BtS isn't dead, at least, not for us. We understand if the last broken promise and the elapsed time might have sent some or all of you to greener, more fruitful pastures. We really do. We're writing for ourselves. We are writing to prove a point about our non-fanfiction related writing future. If you guys are down for the ride, then hop on – we'd love to have you.

No promises about when, except to say _soon_.


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